Running with Wolves
by Dark Akuma Hunter
Summary: They underestimated the latest creature to crawl into Beacon Hills, and in the blink of an eye Stiles finds himself back where it all began: the night Scott was bitten. Everything spirals downhill from there. Season 4-ish? Spoilers ahead for heaps of stuff.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Weeeell I started something new again. We'll just have to wait and see where this goes.

Minor proof/edit on 26/11/16

**Chapter One:**

Stiles knew something was amiss the moment he woke up, lying on the floor in his dad's study, at home, with the police scanner murmuring in the background. His head was a mess. A dull headache thrummed behind his eyes.

"What happened? Who brought me home?"

His question hung heavy in the silence. No one was around to answer him. Which, when his mind calmed enough for rational thought, was pretty strange. These days, with him being the only human in the pack, and with bad guys popping up from behind every corner, someone always stuck by him in the aftermath. Usually he protested, but right now it would have been comforting.

He was at his house, with no memory of going home, and with no one about to explain anything to him. It was unnerving. This sort of thing had stopped happening months ago. Lately they'd all been really tight, what with nightmares and tragedy and dark thoughts looming over them as a collective whole.

So _where was everyone?_

Stiles picked himself up from the floor and gave himself a quick once-over. His shirt was coated in grime from the forest floor – he remembered being thrown into a tree, more than once, but he couldn't feel any of the aches from injuries he was certain he'd sustained. His shoes were scuffed and torn, the norm these days; that's what happened when you ran with wolves. He went to run a hand through his hair, to ruffle it up, but froze the moment his fingers touched his head.

His hair was gone. Shaven, into a buzz cut. Stiles hadn't worn his hair like that in what felt like an age.

His heart raced, breathing becoming erratic. Fingers scrapped against his scalp. His mind raced, thoughts buzzing. Was this a nightmare? Leftover mental contamination from the Nogitsune? Deaton had sworn there was nothing too wrong with him, in the aftermath, but Stiles had never believed him. His mind had been dark and heavy since then, rife with mistrust and distraction – he could no longer fully trust that what he was seeing was real. For the most part he managed to keep it to himself, but sometimes he had to be reminded, reassured, that everything was as it seemed.

Stiles gasped in a deep breath, and held it while he counted to ten. He let the familiar sounds of the police scanner wash over him. Slowly, his heart calmed to a more acceptable speed; still elevated, but less frantic.

"Think," Stiles muttered to himself. "Find facts."

Before he started, he carefully counted his fingers, just to be sure.

His gaze darted about the room, taking in all the little details he usually didn't care about. He didn't often come into his dad's study, they had a sort of unspoken agreement about that, but he knew it well enough even so. His fingers dragged along the wallpaper, eyes scanning case files. If his memory served, they were older than they should have been – and hadn't he helped solve that one last year?

Then he found the calendar.

As Sheriff, Stiles' dad was pretty busy, and it had only gotten worse as more and more of the supernatural came crawling into Beacon Hills, but they always bought new calendars around Christmas and he _always_ used them, because there was so much he needed to keep track of. So this calendar? It couldn't be a mistake. It wasn't April 1st, either, and even if it had been his dad knew better than to try anything like that, after the Nogitsune. Time was _very_ important to Stiles, after all that, because the thought of having missing time made his skin itch.

The voices on the scanner were talking about a dead body in the woods, and a couple of joggers.

There was no way it was all some freaky coincidence. Was it some really messed up mind trick? The Big Bad, the thing they'd been fighting against, no one had been too sure what it was, what powers it possessed. Deaton had said he was looking into it, but that wasn't going so well.

"I just need to go see it for myself."

There was no proof that whatever was happening was real. Stiles had all his fingers, and he could read the case files, but that just meant he wasn't dreaming. He had zero other experience with actual mindfuck, so he'd have to be forgiven for being super paranoid.

Whatever this was though, whatever was happening, that had left him in his own clothes but in a body that hadn't been his for nearly a year now (and god, had it really only been a year since everything started going to hell? It felt like so much longer), it was bad. And it was unknown. And he needed to see it all with his own eyes before he even _thought_ about going near anyone he knew, because if, somehow, this was all real, then he didn't really know these people at all anymore.

What was his life like, before 2011? Stiles honestly could barely remember.

He forced his shaking hands to still, found his keys, and slipped outside to his jeep.

A little voice in the back of his head whispered to him, as he turned the key in the ignition, that he needed to go and get Scott, bring him along. Except Stiles didn't know what he would do if confronted with a skinny asthmatic Scott McCall right now – panic, almost certainly, maybe instinctively try and text someone who didn't yet know him, and any of that was bad news. So he had to go it alone, no matter how bad that felt. It wasn't as though he and Scott investigated things together much anymore anyway. Scott was busy with Kira, and trying to be a good alpha, and Stiles had sort of been unofficially assigned to working with the problematic newbies and with their dear resident banshee.

Stiles banged his hands on the steering wheel and shook his head violently. He couldn't be thinking about that sort of stuff. Not now. Not with so many unknowns and with how he felt like he was hanging over a cliff-edge and his only safety rope was about to be snapped by cruel reality.

The drive to the preserve felt like it took far too long for Stiles' liking. His fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel, and he was almost definitely driving faster than the speed limit the entire way there. Other than his jeep, there weren't many other cars out and about that late at night. As distracted as he was, he'd driven to the preserve so many times over the last year that he could probably get there in his sleep.

That was a depressing thought. Especially since nothing good ever went down out there.

Stiles parked his jeep well out of sight. He didn't plan on being caught, and he didn't want any officers coming to or leaving the preserve to catch a glimpse of the jeep and maybe recognise it. And that _would_ be the only thing to give him away. If there was one thing he'd become way too good at over the last year, it was sneaking through the woods. He couldn't escape a werewolf's detection no matter how hard he tried, but regular people? As long as he kept his wits about him, it was all too easy.

He didn't need to get too close. Peering out from behind a tree, up on a small rise, a familiar scene stretched out before him. Cop cars, the joggers, his dad. Whispers of memory floated through his mind. _They only found half the body. We're going to look for it._ How could he ever have been so _stupid_, so _naïve?!_

Stiles breathed slowly, deeply, and stayed put behind the tree for several minutes. Unsettled as he was, if he moved, he'd get caught.

Stiles sunk to the ground, ignoring the leaves and dirt because he was already covered in it, and what was a bit of dirt in the face of an existential crisis anyway?

His dad looked younger than he'd seen him in a long time, but Stiles knew it wouldn't last. This was the beginning of his downward spiral. The stress from unsolvable supernatural cases weighing down on him. Cases that his dad knew nothing about, and would never find closure for, because they'd been taken care of by the Beacon Hills werewolves.

Stiles dug his fingers into his scalp, hair too short to tug at. What was happening? What was he supposed to do? Nothing made sense anymore.

He sat there, for fifteen long minutes, before Stiles finally collected himself enough to trudge back to his jeep.

He went slowly, stopping every now and again to strain his ears, listening to his surroundings, trying to make sure that no one was nearby. Stiles really didn't need anyone seeing him like this.

That nagging voice from earlier was back, though, whispering that he was forgetting something, something very important. But Stiles ignored it. Because honestly, forgetting everything for a while seemed like a great idea.

He was only a couple of minutes out from his jeep when he heard it. A loud howl, coming from somewhere to his left. His blood ran cold, and Stiles instinctively glanced up at the sky. The full moon wasn't for another week.

"Run," he muttered to himself, "like, now would be good."

But his feet were rooted to the spot. He _knew_ what was coming. Knew he should run, run faster than he ever had before and lock himself in his jeep. But he also knew that no matter how fast he ran, he could never hope to outrun a werewolf.

Stiles considered holding his breath, but the frantic pounding of his heart would give away his position anyway. There was just no winning with this.

He'd spent a year running with wolves, but it was impossible. Stiles couldn't do it. He couldn't figure out where supposed-to-be-in-a-coma Peter Hale was going to come from.

It happened in the blink of an eye. A rush of air past his body. A sharp pain in his side. An echoing, triumphant howl.

Stiles clasped at his side and fell to the ground. It just wasn't his day.

**oOoOo**

Stiles almost didn't go to school that morning.

He'd spent all night in the woods, regardless of the fact that crazy psycho-wolf Peter Hale might still have been running about, panicked out of his mind because _he'd fucked up big time._ Because maybe, just maybe, this was all real and happening, and Stiles had just changed _everything._ He hadn't brought Scott with him, ergo, Scott hadn't been bitten. Stiles had.

Stiles, the perpetual human, with no good traits apart from his obsessive researching and his ability to sass Derek Hale and not get his throat ripped out. Stiles, who had tossed about the thought of asking for the bite once or twice before really _thinking_ about it, and what it had done to his friends, and decided that all that enhanced shit wasn't worth the mental trauma.

But he'd dragged himself back home in the early hours of the morning, driving his jeep as quietly as possible (which was hard) and eventually parking it down the street. His dad would already know he'd snuck out, but he didn't need to hear what time he made it home.

Stiles had a shower, washing away all the grime from his second consecutive day in the woods _and_ all the blood. He wrapped his torso, not bothering to be too thorough about it, since either it would be healed by the end of the day, or he'd be dead. (oh god, was he going to die? Peter had seemed to think he'd take quite nicely to the bite when he'd offered it to him, but was pre-resurrection Peter the best person to trust on their judgment calls?)

His head spun at the thought. Stiles had been in plenty of life or death situations, but never had he been so completely useless. There was nothing that could be done. His body would either accept it or reject it. He would live or die painfully. 50/50. The flip of a coin. All he could do was wait, and that was terrifying. Not quite as terrifying as being trapped in his own mind, no, nothing would be able to top that. It was a different sort of terror. A helplessness.

Stiles took more Adderall than he was supposed to before heading off to school. It didn't help. He wasn't sure it was ever going to help again. Stiles also knew he was going to have to confront his dad at some point, and he was going to get a serious tongue-lashing. He'd been lying to his dad's face for so long now… He wasn't sure what he was going to do.

He just had to… act normal. But what was normal? Stiles couldn't remember.

**oOoOo**

Stiles stared at his locker and groaned low in his throat. He'd managed to slip inside without drawing too much attention, and he'd avoided talking to anyone thus far, but he couldn't remember his damned combination.

Everything was just a bit too loud; sounds too sharp, colours a tad too vibrant. It made it hard to concentrate. And two days ago he'd had far more pressing things to worry about than last year's locker combination.

Stiles identified Scott's approach ten seconds before his best friend called out a greeting and clapped him on the back. It was strange, because he'd never been able to tell Scott's footsteps from anyone else's before; the only difference he'd ever been able to hear was between sneakers and heels. How did he know that particular gait belonged to _Scott _when it was the first time he'd heard it?

It suddenly hit him just how hard the whole thing must have been for Scott, who had absolutely no idea what was going on at the time. If his friend hadn't been so damned obstinate about the whole thing he might have been proud just then.

"What's up man? You're just staring at your locker, and it's starting to freak me out."

Stiles held back a flinch, because Scott was too close, and his voice was too loud. He sighed, made an aborted motion to run his hand through his hair, and shook his head.

"Forgot my combination," he admitted, trying hard to limit the amount of melancholy in his voice to 'first day back' levels, and keep it away from 'the world is ending.' Because Stiles had honed his melodrama over the years, but even so, his current 'end of the world' melancholy was serious stuff, because everyone he knew nearly died on an almost weekly basis.

Scott gave him a slightly worried look, and Stiles belatedly realised that his current 'first day back' melancholy was probably tantamount to his old 'end of the world' moping. He tried for a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Scott reached across him and opened Stiles' locker for him.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." Stiles nodded emphatically, even though he didn't believe that at all. "I just didn't get much sleep last night. You know."

Scott frowned his adorable confused frown, and Stiles had to bite his lip to stop from just spilling everything right there and then. Scott would never believe him. He hadn't even believed Stiles when Scott was the one affected, even if Stiles _had_ been joking in the beginning. Scott was too idealistically realistic (most of the time) to believe anything like this.

And it struck Stiles now, in retrospect, that talking about werewolf stuff all the time in crowded school corridors probably hadn't been the smartest move. How many people had overheard them?

"I'm serious," Stiles tacked on, forcing some energy into it. "I'll be fine in a few hours." It was a lie. Stiles was vehemently certain that'd he'd never be okay again. But maybe, in a few hours, he'd have managed to get himself together enough to pretend. He'd looked alpha Scott in the eye and lied to him before. How hard could it be to lie to a human?

_Oh god. Nothing's going to be the same ever again._

**oOoOo**

Stiles had thought he was prepared for pretty much anything, but then Allison Argent walked into his first-period class.

His heart ached at the sight of her. Smiling and free from the knowledge of werewolves and hunting. Unburdened by the strains of dating a werewolf, of family loyalty, of life. Living and breathing and sitting in the row behind him.

Stiles, the _Nogitsune,_ had killed her. Killed her right in front of Scott and Isaac, in front of everyone who loved her. There were days when he woke up and wondered why her father hadn't just killed him. Those mornings usually coincided with nights filled with nightmares wherein the Nogitsune was a figment of his imagination, created to try and separate him from the horrid things he was doing.

After the Nogitsune had been inside him, Stiles realised that he was capable of doing horrible things. And just because it was the Nogitsune that killed Allison, it didn't mean Stiles couldn't someday wind up doing the same thing.

So seeing Allison made him want to tear his heart out and leave it on the floor, because he didn't deserve to feel.

But it was nothing compared to his first glimpse of Erica Reyes.

Stiles knew that back then, the person he had been wouldn't have given Erica a second glance in the hallways. No one did. She didn't have any friends, not really. And Stiles knew what that was like, to an extent, because he could pretend to be pals with the guys on the lacrosse team, like Danny (but definitely not guys like Greenburg or Jackson), but Scott was his only real, good friend.

Stiles remembered Erica as a werewolf. Fierce, sensual, abrasive. Damaged. But what he remembered most was Erica, dead. It was something he tried to forget, but knew he would never be able to. Stiles had mourned her for a long time – he still was, in all honesty – because she was his Catwoman, and he hadn't spent nearly as much time with her as he ought to have, and her death had filled him with regrets about things done and not done that he was never going to have a chance to rectify.

Except, there she was. Epileptic, pre-werewolf Erica. A childhood friend he'd ignored all through high school.

Seeing Erica was like a punch to the gut. A werewolf punch. Probably hard enough to rupture organs. It staggered him.

It threw him so badly that Stiles ditched Scott and his hopeless gossip about Allison (oh the things he could have told him, not that he and Allison had ever really talked much on a personal level), and took his lunch over to the corner of the cafeteria where Erica was sitting all alone. Her skin was paler than he remembered.

"Hey, Erica." Stiles hoped like hell she didn't catch the waver in his voice. He was trying to suppress it, but it was difficult, with so many emotions clouding his mind as he looked at her. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"Stiles…" Erica looked up at him with wide, suspicious eyes. Stiles flinched. He'd done that to her. They'd been really tight when they were younger, and now look at them.

"It's okay if you don't want me to, I can go," he began rambling, a little frantic. He didn't know what she was thinking and he must seem really off today and all the freaking _heartbeat_ sounds weren't helping _at all_, and how did Scott even deal with all of this? "I just…" Stiles shrugged helplessly. "I wanted to see how my Catwoman was holding up. And maybe apologise."

Erica considered him for a long moment, brown eyes scrutinising every inch of his face. Stiles tried not to think about how he hadn't been able to save her, because he didn't think looking at her as though she were a ghost was going to score him any points.

Eventually she nodded, and Stiles sat down, suddenly aware of the attention they'd drawn from those people seated near them.

"You haven't called me Catwoman since we were twelve," Erica said, in a manner that reminded Stiles a little of the werewolf Erica, when she wasn't afraid to say whatever was on her mind. Stiles supposed she'd always been like that, except no one had been around to notice. He'd missed it. More than he realised.

"Yeah." Stiles rubbed his hand over his head, lamenting that fact. "I haven't been much of a friend since then."

Erica was still watching him carefully, so he tried to be as open as possible.

"What brought this on then?" Erica asked, gesturing between them, hesitant, as though she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"I guess you could call it a New Year's resolution, or turning over a new leaf?" Stiles couldn't tell her why he was really doing this. They sounded like good reasons, didn't they? "I came to the conclusion, recently, that I've been kind of a dick to you these past few years. And that that's really not on. Because you, Erica, you're pretty amazing, and I'm not sure if you realise that. And everyone who teases you or ignores you, they're all missing out. Because you rock. And I've kind of missed my Catwoman."

Stiles tapped his fingers along the edge of the table, counting them over and over again as both reassurance and a way to fill the new silence. When he looked back up, Erica wasn't looking at him. She was staring across the cafeteria. He followed her gaze and zeroed in on Scott. Poor, confused Scott.

Erica turned back to him, a different look in her eyes now. "I believe you," she said. Belatedly, Stiles realised she had probably thought it was some sort of prank.

"Thank you." Stiles offered up a smile, one that he hoped looked more sincere than the one he'd given Scott that morning. "Listen, I have lacrosse after school and stuff, so I'm busy, but we should hang out sometime. Watch Batman. I don't know. You choose."

Erica smiled softly, and it lit up her face. A burning hatred welled up in Stiles' gut, furious at everyone who teased her and beat her back into her shell. He knew that technically he and Scott also fell under that umbrella, for ignoring her, but that stopped now.

Step one of a plan Stiles was making up as he went was now complete. They may not be his pack yet, but Stiles wasn't going to let them be alone anymore. Not this time.

**oOoOo**

Stiles didn't go to lacrosse practice after school. He knew Scott had been training really hard over the break, and his friend was convinced he was somehow going to make it to first line this season, but he didn't have the time for it right now. He remembered Scott's first practice after being bitten. Stiles didn't need a repeat.

Coach would yell at him for it later, despite having pretty much never made it off the bench before, but he'd deal with that when the time came. Right now, he needed to talk to Derek.

Despite everything that had happened throughout the day, it was hard for Stiles to remember that this Derek he was heading out to find wasn't _his_ Derek. This Derek was mourning the loss of his sister, and was without a pack. His Derek was part of a pack. A dysfunctional, unconventional pack, for sure, but a pack nonetheless.

Stiles parked his jeep in the same place as the previous night, and stepped out into the preserve. His hand came up to rest against his side as he stood under the trees. The bite mark didn't hurt anymore. If he looked, he'd probably find it gone, or at least nearly healed.

It was strange, being on the receiving end. How many times had Stiles seen his friends injured, only to miraculously heal? How many times had he envied that, when he got thrown around trying to help? If the Nogitsune hadn't completely blown the lid on the supernatural, Stiles wouldn't have put it past his dad to assume he'd somehow joined a gang, with the way he kept collecting injuries.

Stiles breathed in deeply through his nose, taking in the enhanced scents of the woods. It was a confusing mix, and he couldn't identify most of it, but mostly it just smelled like nature. A homely, comforting scent.

"Now then," Stiles breathed out. "How do I find me a Sourwolf?"


	2. Chapter 2

Minor proofing/edit 26/11/16

**Chapter Two:**

For all his familiarity with the preserve, finding Derek was no easy task. All the scents and sounds screwed with his sense of direction for a while; every time Stiles stepped on a twig or crunched too many leaves he'd spin around, looking for whoever was out there with him. He had to really concentrate on ignoring the sounds he made as he walked.

It didn't help that Stiles didn't really know where Derek was likely to lurk. He _could_ have just gone straight up to the ruins of the Hale House, but Stiles imagined that ending with a claw in his stomach, so it was best to at least pretend that he didn't know how to get there from just about any point in the preserve.

So he was really stuck with wandering randomly through the woods until Derek got fed up of the noisy wolf meandering about the place and came to kick him out. Stiles just hoped that Derek's method of chasing people away from the preserve still meant standing menacingly with his arms crossed and reminding him that he was trespassing.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Stiles ignored it. Twenty to one it was Scott asking him where he'd run off to, why he wasn't at practice. Right now he couldn't think of anything to tell him. Definitely not the truth. And not what he could pretend was the truth, because Scott would think it weird that Stiles hadn't told him about it before school, or demanded Scott come with him.

Stiles thumbed his phone off and made a right around a large tree.

Standing on the slope above him, clad in dark colours and ultimately looking highly unimpressed, was Derek Hale.

Stiles put his hands on his knees, breathing a sigh of relief. He might play lacrosse, but he was usually on the bench; he wasn't the fittest kid around. Being half-way to werewolf wasn't helping too much right now. Wandering the woods was monotonous, and that tired him out more than any actual walking. It made him a little anxious.

"This is private property," Derek told him, scowling. His tone was more hostile than Stiles had heard it in a long time, but he had expected this sort of welcome. He probably smelled like a wolf by now, and that would no doubt make Derek suspicious.

"I know," Stiles admitted, standing straight. Was werewolf body language a thing? Scott had never told him. Rules would be nice right about now. He didn't always follow them, but Stiles liked rules. "But I need to talk to you."

Derek stared down at Stiles, and Stiles stared back, trying to ignore the sting brought about by the lack of recognition. Of _course_ Derek didn't recognise him, they'd never met before, he knew that. But as with everything before that, knowing was one thing, and seeing it was another.

"I wasn't aware of a new pack arriving in Beacon Hills. But I've been gone a long time. The Hale Pack has no dominance here any longer. You don't need my permission for anything."

Stiles grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.

_Come _on_ Derek, can't you smell the difference between wolf and kid-who-got-bitten-yesterday? Or do you just not care? You were never this chatty to Scott in the beginning, never accused _him_ of being from another pack. What's your deal?_

"That's not it at all Sourwolf." Stiles cringed as the nickname slipped out. He was so used to thinking it, to Derek scowling with that 'I'm secretly amused' scowl whenever he said it within hearing. By now it was a reflex. What better way to lighten the mood after a hard week than with some ribbing in the Hale loft?

Derek shifted, moving into a stance that was a little more battle-ready. Stiles could almost smell the confusion.

Actually, he probably could. Was that what confusion smelled like? It was weird that emotions had scents. He'd rather they didn't. There were things he didn't need to know. Like, a lot of things. He had enough to deal with already, he didn't need to know when everyone else was depressed as well.

Stiles held his hands out in submission, shaking his head.

"No no no, don't do that, just hear me out. Listen. You're the only wolf in Beacon Hills, yeah?"

They both knew that wasn't true, but Stiles hardly thought Derek would acknowledge his uncle, considering he was – _allegedly_ – in a coma.

Derek inclined his head. Stiles wasn't sure if that was a nod or just an indication that he was listening. Either way he carried on.

"Well, this might sound a little crazy then, but I was out here last night. And I was bitten." Stiles' fingers drifted up to his side again. "And see, the thing is, I don't reckon you did it. Which begs the question of who did."

Stiles hadn't really thought this whole thing through. He couldn't just outright accuse Peter Hale, because that would raise far too many questions about things he couldn't, or rather, probably shouldn't, answer. Like how he knew about Peter, to start the ball rolling, and then how he knew the Hales were werewolves, and _why_ he was so adamant that a man in a coma had been the one to bite him. It was all a bit of a mess.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Oh, typical Derek, ignoring evidence that was right in front of him.

Stiles sighed, and thumped his fist against his chest, over his heart.

"Does it _sound_ like I'm lying?"

Okay, so maybe now wasn't the best time to be encouraging the heartbeat lie-detector. Today had been super stressful already, and Stiles didn't think his heart had settled yet after all his shocks at school. Gods, even seeing Mr Harris had given him a scare! From the shock of everything he'd been focussing only on those of his deceased friends he'd have to see once more; he'd entirely forgotten that other people he knew had suffered too.

Derek took a few measured steps down the slope, coming closer to Stiles.

"Your heartbeat is all over the place," he told Stiles bluntly. "But I do believe you. You twitch every time you hear something around us, like you need to see what it was. You smell like a wolf, but you don't act like one. But that's not my problem. You're on your own."

Stiles' hands fell to his sides. That was not what he was expecting. Derek had been all over Scott, needling him, worrying about him _exposing_ their mutual secret. What made Stiles different? Why was nothing ever the same? Stiles didn't have the time for this added stress, the added unknown, the question of what made him so damn different from his best friend.

"Oh," Stiles laughed sarcastically. "Of course. The Sheriff's son gets turned by some wandering lunatic, and Beacon Hills' resident wolf doesn't care. Fucking typical."

Derek visibly startled.

"You're the Sheriff's son?"

"_Yes!_ Wait, what? _That's_ what you focus on?! Honestly, I don't get the way your mind works."

"That means you know why I'm back in town."

Stiles was about to protest that, because it implied that he was a sneak and an eavesdropper (which was true, but not the point), but in all fairness he _did_ know what was happening, and it would be easier to just admit it.

"Yes." Stiles brought his hands together, tapping his fingers nervously. "That body they found in the woods yesterday. That's… Laura Hale, isn't it? She's your sister. Obviously you'd come back for something like that."

Derek's countenance changed all of a sudden, in a manner Stiles didn't quite understand. It wasn't as though he suddenly seemed friendly and approachable, and Derek certainly hadn't stopped scowling at him. The suspicion was still there, and probably would be for a long time. There was almost a desperation about him.

Stiles found himself assaulted by unfamiliar scents as he really focussed on Derek. His nose twitched, and he decided to breathe through his mouth, uncomfortable. They were emotive scents, he was sure, and he didn't _want_ to know what they meant. That was _personal, pervasive_, and he wasn't interested in invading Derek's privacy, not then and not now.

Derek's fingers dug into his arms, and if it wasn't for that jacket he used to wear all the time Stiles was sure he might have been drawing blood.

"I'm trying to find out what happened to her," Derek admitted slowly, each word delivered with a weighted hesitance, as though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to tell Stiles this. "But it's not easy. The Sheriff's already suspicious of me, which I can't blame him for, but it complicates things. You… If you hear anything, about the investigation…"

It took mere seconds for Stiles to make up his mind. He still felt guilty for getting Derek arrested, even if this Derek didn't know about it. And maybe the arrangement could be useful, while he worked up a semi-decent plan for breaking the news to Derek that his uncle _wasn't_ as spaced out as he appeared to be.

"I'll tell you if I hear anything. Promise."

Derek nodded, jaw clenched, and the atmosphere, which now lacked most of the previous tense hostility, adopted a sense of awkwardness.

Stiles shifted uneasily.

He didn't want to _ask_, but he really didn't want to spend his first full moon on his own. It had been bad enough dealing with Scott, who hadn't been willing to listen to him and had fought him every step of the way, in the beginning. He wasn't at all certain that, with _him_ chained up, Stiles would be able to attain that same level of preparedness (not that he'd been that prepared in the first place).

Derek relaxed his fingers, rubbing his chin in thought. "You said you were attacked yesterday?"

Stiles paused, dragged out of his fretful planning.

"Yes."

Derek flashed his beta-blue eyes at him, and Stiles felt his burn in response.

"You have surprisingly good self-control for a newbie, particularly this close to the full moon." Derek's nostrils flared. Stiles wondered if he still smelled like the pack. If he smelled like _Derek_. Like _Derek's_ pack. Was that why he wasn't concerned about him? Because Stiles smelled like wolf? "It's true that I haven't sensed a new pack in town, but are you certain you're alone?"

"100%."

"Then you don't have anyone to help you through your first moon."

Stiles shook his head, not willing to speak in case he shattered whatever strangely charitable mood Derek appeared to be in.

"Normally your alpha would do that, but…" The reasoning went unspoken. A rogue alpha wolf was roaming Beacon Hills, and he seemed to have no sense of self, or responsibility. "I'm not going to claim to be a good teacher by any stretch of the imagination. But if you want guidance, in return for keeping an ear out for police reports, I'd be… willing."

"Please," Stiles gushed, words tumbling over each other. "Whatever help you can give me, please, I'll take anything I can get."

To Stiles, who had become rather adept at reading Hale facial expressions, Derek seemed taken aback by his eagerness. Derek wasn't much of a people person, Stiles knew that, and maybe it was strange for someone to want to spend time with him.

He'd deal with Derek's screwy emotional state later. Right now, he had protection for Friday, at least over this full moon. For now, that was all he could ask.

**oOoOo**

Tuesday through Thursday was spent with Stiles trying his best to acclimatise.

He sat with Erica at lunch, and dragged Scott along with him. He took moments to covertly stare at those people who had died, to really force it into his mind that they were all back.

Scott spent most of Tuesday trying to get answers from Stiles about his everything, from his mood to his skipping lacrosse practice. Stiles evaded them all, with convenient lies and non-answers. If their roles had been reversed, Stiles never would have caved so easily, because he knew how to tell when Scott was lying. But Scott had never been as good at reading him, and now he was distracted by _Allison_ all over again.

It turned out that Scott _had_ managed to up his lacrosse game. As much as a not-so-athletic asthmatic kid could, anyway. Coach had said he might actually get to play. It wasn't quite first line like Scott had wanted, but Coach didn't exactly hand out maybes like candy.

Stiles was contemplating quitting lacrosse altogether.

Stiles wasn't annoyed, exactly, that Scott was still head-over-heels for Allison Argent. Her family being Hunters was a total non-issue now, since Scott was still one hundred per cent human. She was a good person, and Scott deserved a bit of love. It also made Scott distracted, and that much easier to fool. Things he should have been glad for. But it also angered a little part of him. (A part that had grown much larger and louder since the Nogitsune tried to bring about his inner darkness.) Because Scott was his best friend and he was supposed to notice when things were wrong.

The same things were happening all over again except this time Scott was even more oblivious, because he wasn't the person in trouble.

Lying to Scott always felt like kicking a puppy. Stiles hated doing it. He wanted to tell Scott everything, but had to sort out a game plan. Maybe, once he was in control, and could change at will, _then_ he'd tell Scott. Because with proof, Scott would have to believe him. Except he was glad Scott didn't know. Because if he never learned about werewolves, he'd never have to hide that knowledge from the Argents, and he'd never get caught between two sides like that again.

Trying to be selfless was frustrating.

**oOoOo**

Stiles skipped school on Friday.

He didn't need to, the full moon wasn't until that evening. Scott was going to freak out. The school was going to call his dad, and he was going to be in serious trouble. But there were things he needed to do.

Stiles packed some things in his bag and headed out to the preserve again. Because no one would think to look for him there. Up until now he'd never taken all that much of an interest in the woods, save for the occasional childhood outing. If he was going to skip school, it was one of the last places they'd ever look for him.

Sitting in a small clearing, nestled up against a smoother tree, Stiles opened up a fresh notebook and laid it across his lap. It hadn't even been a week yet, but his mind was slipping.

Stiles had an impressive grasp of facts _in the present_, but remembering specifics of events he was involved in, that was a completely different story. Personal experiences became a haze of passing time, even the nightmare inducing stuff.

Regardless of whether or not he was ever going to use the information, he needed to get it all down on paper, to force the memories back into clarity in his mind. He needed to remember, in order to see the differences. In order to protect the people he cared about, and to protect Beacon Hills.

So many things were out of his control, but Stiles was going to try, dammit. He would wear himself to the bone, work himself into the ground, to ensure that things worked out differently this time around.

Derek found him late in the afternoon, in that same spot, smelling like ink and with black streaked across his fingers and hands. He didn't ask what Stiles was writing, and Stiles didn't offer an explanation. They weren't friends. It didn't matter.

He tucked the notebook away in his bag, and followed Derek deeper into the woods, towards the ruins of the Hale House. It was time for Full Moon Survival 101.

**oOoOo**

Surprisingly enough, when Stiles made it back home on Saturday morning, it wasn't to his dad in full, angry lecture mode. The Sheriff _was_ waiting for him in the kitchen, cradling a mug of coffee that looked like it had gone cold hours ago, but instead of angry, Stiles thought there was a rather defeated slump to his dad's shoulders.

As worn out as he was after Derek's version of full moon safety, all he really wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for maybe a week, and he _could_ have snuck up to his room without his dad noticing, but he'd been avoiding his dad as much as possible for a week now. It was time something changed.

Slowly, making sure his steps echoed as he moved, Stiles walked into the kitchen. His dad knew he was there, but didn't make a move to acknowledge him as Stiles pulled out a chair at the table, and sat down. He was expecting to have to start the conversation, too, but then his dad spoke up.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Stiles was stunned into silence, all weariness gone in an instant. That was not what he was expecting.

"Stiles, you're a good kid. And I know things have been tough since your mom died, but we've worked through it. If this is some sort of teenage rebellion, the sneaking out and the skipping school, please, just tell me what's going through your head, kiddo. We can deal with it together."

Stiles tapped his fingers along the underside of the table, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.

"Dad, no. No. You haven't done anything wrong."

Once upon a time Stiles had been upset about his dad working all the time, but he was the Sheriff, what had Stiles expected to happen? He was doing a good job, and Stiles hadn't been annoyed by that in years. Months. Well, he didn't care anymore, and that was all that mattered.

"Then talk to me Stiles. Tell me what's happening."

Stiles had to look away from his dad's piercing, defeated gaze. The notebook in his bag burned him with guilt. He could never tell anyone about what was in it. Never.

But there _was_ something he _could_ tell his dad. He'd never wanted to, last time around, even though he could have helped them with investigations and the like, because he both hadn't wanted to get in trouble, and he hadn't wanted his dad to get mixed up in it when it might put him in more danger. But he was the Sheriff. He was always in danger when things went wrong in Beacon Hills, regardless of whether or not he was aware of it.

Stiles took a deep breath and faced his dad's gaze head-on. He concentrated as hard as he could until he felt that burn in his eyes again (beta gold, he'd checked, just to make sure). His dad's mouth fell open in shock, and he leaned forward across the table to get a better look at the unnatural glow.

"Stiles," his dad said slowly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, "tell me what's going on. And it had better be a good story."

Looking pointedly now at his dad's shoulder, Stiles nodded. He allowed the beta gold to recede from his eyes, because keeping it there was an extra effort he couldn't really afford to be expending just then.

He'd heard much talk about anchors from the wolves in his life. Stiles had no idea what his was, or could be, but if last night was anything to go by, Derek assumed he already had some sort of grasp on whatever it was. Stiles disagreed. But he _had_ been pleasantly surprised by how well behaved he'd been. Even if he had needed to be physically restrained. And even though he might have scratched Derek a few times with lethal claws he didn't know what to do with. That was beside the point. Derek was a big wolf, he could take care of himself. But while Stiles had fairly decent self-control, especially when it _wasn't_ the full moon, he had almost zero grasp on how to purposefully use any of his wolfish powers. Making his eyes glow on demand was about as far as he'd gotten.

It was going to make proving his claims rather difficult. But he had to start somewhere.

"Well then. Um. As the glowy eyes might suggest, some strange stuff had been happening lately." Stiles waved his hands lamely in the air in front of him, trying to express the mysterious vibes of the explanation he was about to give. His dad ignored it. "You know that dead body you found on Sunday? Laura Hale? You think it was an animal attack, but that's only half true."

His dad frowned, a rapid succession of angry-resigned-exhausted flashing across his face.

"I would ask how you know about that, but of course you've been looking into my case files again. What does that have to do with you skipping school? Hold on, don't tell me you've been looking for the other half of the body."

"No no no, definitely not out searching for dead bodies." Stiles didn't mention that he technically knew where it was buried. Because he wasn't supposed to know. Derek hadn't shared, and he hadn't gone looking for it this time around. "But it has everything to do with this." He waved a hand, gesturing up and down his own body.

His dad sighed, and motioned for him to continue.

"Okay then. Now. This is going to sound absolutely crazy, but I swear to you, I'm telling the truth." Stiles' voice dropped into the serious tones he rarely ever used, because he was rarely ever trying to get across a point as dire as this. His dad noticed, and whatever had been floating through his mind before seemed to vanish. This was no boundaries, no judgment, fact talk.

"There's really no good way to ease into this, so… Laura Hale was killed by a werewolf."

The Sheriff's eye twitched, but he didn't say anything.

"And that same werewolf is still prowling about somewhere at night. And, uh, you know how I got home real late on Sunday? I kinda sorta maybe might have run into that werewolf when I was out at the preserve and that's why my eyes glow."

A long silence stretched out between them. Stiles drew triskelions on the tabletop.

"You're trying to tell me you're, what, a _werewolf_ now?" His dad couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. It did sound pretty crazy. But Stiles had warned him.

"Believe me, if I'd been home last night, you would have noticed."

"Last night? Kid, if this is a joke, it's not a funny one."

Stiles steeled himself.

"I swear on mom's grave that I'm telling the truth."

His dad sucked in a great gulp of air, startled. They'd never used that as a measuring factor before, but both knew that neither would ever dare to lie if they invoked Claudia Stilinski's name.

"I can prove it to you, but not right now. I don't have control. I can't show you. I just thought you should know, that what you're looking for, it isn't an animal. It's a man. An alpha. Who fully understood what they were doing when they went after Laura Hale. And who no doubt won't hesitate to kill again. And I want you to be careful, dad, because I can't lose you."

"Okay."

His dad climbed to his feet and rounded the table, kneeling next to Stiles' chair.

"Okay," he said again, wrapping his arms around Stiles' shoulders. Stiles hadn't realised he'd been shaking until then. "This is all crazy talk, but I believe you."

His eyes burned again, but this time with tears. Stiles didn't want to cry, not in front of his dad, but he couldn't stop the tears from falling. He was scared and alone with the knowledge in his head and he didn't know what to do about anything anymore. But his dad believed him, at least a little. It was as though the iron band around his heart had loosened, dispelling a fraction of the crippling fears that haunted him through his every waking hour.

"Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

Minor edits 26/11/16

**Chapter Three:**

Stiles had assumed that he was so wiped out from the full moon that he wouldn't dream when he finally went to sleep on Saturday. He was wrong.

The full moon, and his mishmash survival session with Derek, had sparked memories and thoughts Stiles had hoped he'd long since suppressed. He'd nearly died more times than he cared to admit, and the thought of being restrained, while a good idea, made him a little nauseous. Because it was taking away his freedom and limiting his movement. So many times he'd been trapped by his own subconscious inability to move. Having a physical manifestation was… torturous.

He woke with a startled yell from hazy dreams of claws and guns and arrows. He was drenched with sweat, and his fingers had gone wolf on him at some point and scored large gouges into his sheets and mattress.

It seemed like mere seconds after he woke that his dad burst into his bedroom, brandishing his gun (thankfully with the safety on). Maybe Stiles' story had shaken him up more than he'd let on, if the first thing to come to mind when he heard Stiles scream in the middle of the night was that someone had broken in. Probably Peter Hale, not that his dad had a name to put with the idea of homicidal werewolf.

"Stiles, what happened, are you okay?"

Stiles breathed deeply through his nose, attempting to calm his racing heart, only to wrinkle his nose as the scent of sweat flooded his senses. He fruitlessly attempted to hide the rip marks, which only drew his dad's attention to his bed.

"It's fine," Stiles mumbled softly, hoping his voice wasn't shaking as much as he thought it was. "Everything's fine. I just… had a nightmare. You know."

John Stilinski placed his hand lightly over Stiles' wrist, pulling his hand away from the sheets, where he was tugging at the torn threads with nails still partway between claw and fingernail. He examined Stiles' nails for a moment, caught in fascination by them, before he held Stiles' hand between his own.

"I'm not going to ask what it was about," John reassured him, "because I know you wouldn't tell me anyway. But seriously, kiddo, if there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, tell me? Sometimes it feels like you're trying to protect me, but Stiles, I'm supposed to be protecting you. Just remember that, okay?"

Stiles forced himself not to look at the notebook full of secrets half-buried on his desk.

"Yeah dad, of course."

He curled his fingers carefully around his dad's hands, returning the reassuring hold while concentrating on getting his nails back to normal. It was disconcerting for Stiles to watch the change, but he couldn't imagine how strange it must have been for his dad to see.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

John stayed kneeling for a moment longer, and then released Stiles' hands, climbing back to his feet.

Stiles gnawed on his lower lip, his extra sharp teeth nothing but bad news for that particular habit.

He sighed, hanging his head.

"Dad. Do you… do you think you could stay in the room? Just until I fall asleep."

He was going to be worrying about his dad more than he ever had before over the coming months. It would be nice if, just for a while, he could go to sleep with visual confirmation that his dad was still in one piece.

His dad didn't say anything, aware that too much acknowledgement of Stiles' request might embarrass him and prevent Stiles from reaching out again. Stiles was like that sometimes. He needed to be tiptoed around. But he pulled out Stiles' desk chair and sat down.

Stiles gave a strained, slightly sheepish smile, and hesitantly moved to lie back down. The tears in the mattress rubbed against his arms, stark in his awareness now that he knew they were there. They were going to be a reminder for a long time that he was dangerous in his sleep, no matter how good he liked to think his control was when awake.

**oOoOo**

On Sunday afternoon, Stiles' dad was called down to the station, and Stiles found himself with an unexpected visitor.

Seeing Derek twice in as many days when not in a life or death crisis? That was practically miracle territory!

Still, Stiles felt a little weird, seeing the older man again so soon after he'd told his dad about his wolf problems. He must have smelled guilty, because Derek gave him a long look when Stiles let him in, and promptly determined the reason.

"You told the Sheriff?"

Derek had his arms crossed defensively across his chest. Stiles realised Derek was reading too far into things.

"Not about you!" he protested, waving his hands in frustration. "I'm not suicidal. No. I told him about me, and about that loner wolf, but mostly I told him to be careful. I don't need that wolf going after my dad."

Derek breathed out slowly, relaxing his tense shoulders a fraction or two.

"It must be a burden," he said. If Stiles was reading him right, that was some sort of permission. Well, it was good to know he hadn't pissed Derek off too much so far.

It occurred to Stiles then that, as a born wolf, Derek never had to suffer through trying to keep something that massive hidden from his parents. School friends, sure, that was something they had in common, but family was a different matter. A sad little part of Stiles wondered what his mom would have thought about it all.

"Anyway, dad's going to sort the investigation into Laura's death. So it's up to us to find the guy."

"No."

"I'm sorry, what?" Stiles cupped his ear dramatically. "I could've sworn you just said no."

"Exactly." Derek dropped his arms and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Stiles, this is dangerous, and it's not your fight. You should concentrate on centering yourself, and finding control."

"Not your fight," Stiles echoed, scowling. "Listen here Sourwolf, that psycho is _my_ alpha. If that doesn't make me involved, then I don't know what's going on in that little wolfy head of yours."

Derek didn't miss a beat.

"That's even more reason you shouldn't get involved. Alphas have power over their pack. If he's as deranged as you seem to think he is, there's no telling what he might do to you. You'd just get in the way."

Stiles was silent as his Hale translator ticked over.

Did that mean Derek was worried about his well-being? His safety? Or was he just playing lone wolf? Stiles liked to think it was the first one.

"I was meaning to ask; why do you call me that?"

Stiles startled, eyes developing a deer-in-headlights quality.

"Call you what?" he asked nervously, despite knowing exactly what Derek meant. His emotions tended to get the better of him, and he'd let it slip out again.

Derek pulled a face. "Sourwolf. Why call me that? Monday was the first time we've met, wasn't it?"

Stiles cleared his throat and said "yes" as firmly as he could manage. It was more or less true, only for Stiles that first Monday had been over a year ago. "It's a nickname," he continued, floundering for an explanation. "Wolf, werewolf, self-explanatory, no?" He glanced at Derek's scowling face. "And you're always scowling, see? So, Sourwolf."

Derek looked like he wanted to say something else, but he restrained himself, only giving an annoyed shake of his head.

"Keep your wits about you," he said eventually. "You have enhanced senses now. Use them. And try and stay out of trouble."

Stiles nodded seriously.

In the back of his mind he acknowledged that he still needed to find a way to tell Derek about Peter. But that didn't seem like a good idea _at all._ And Derek had basically just kicked him out of the investigation, saying he didn't want his help. It didn't exactly make Stiles want to tell him.

It was a little vindictive, and being vengeful was no way to save lives and change the future, but he couldn't help it. He was still tired and he was mentally exhausted and nothing seemed right anymore.

How much had he already changed just be getting bitten in Scott's place? By reconnecting with Erica?

Stiles would tell Derek eventually, because he deserved to know, but there was something Stiles needed to do first. He was going to pay Peter a visit, before the wolf had a chance to make the first move.

"My dad'll be home soon," Stiles said, not showing any signs of the decision he had just come to. "You should probably go, unless you want to help me explain the other half of the story."

Derek rolled his eyes, but took the dismissal as it was, and allowed himself to be herded out of the house.

"Stay out of the preserve!" he called back over his shoulder as he went.

Stiles just waved and shut the door behind him.

**oOoOo**

Scott chewed Stiles out on Monday about skipping school. He'd had all weekend to think about it, but he hadn't come up with any sort of good explanation. He brushed Scott off, saying he'd been sick, and his phone was out of credit, so he hadn't been able to return his messages.

Scott didn't look happy about any of it – he was starting to sense that there were things Stiles was refusing to tell him – but it was for the best. Stiles knew things would get way too complicated if Scott knew what was really going on. If Scott didn't think he was having a psychotic break.

Sometimes he wondered if he was too hard on Scott. Scott was open-minded enough about normal things. (No one on the team, for instance, had any issues with Danny being gay, but that might have been because Danny was _actually_ good at lacrosse.) He was a good friend, and had stuck with Stiles through thick and thin since the moment they met.

Now though, Stiles was keeping secrets and Scott was chasing his own tail trying to get in good with Allison. They just weren't connecting. Stiles wasn't about to say it wasn't mostly his own fault, because he knew it was. He just didn't know how to deal with this Scott anymore, the Scott who hadn't struggled through being an alpha and dating a hunter and having his best friend, Stiles, possessed by a Nogitsune.

Stiles didn't know how to deal with _anyone_ who hadn't seen him suffer through that possession.

He needed to work on being a better friend. But that could wait. First off, Peter Hale needed to be brought to heel.

**oOoOo**

On Tuesday, Lydia Martin sat down across from Stiles with an irritable sigh.

"I don't know what's gotten into you. I know I ignore you all the time, but that isn't supposed to be a two-way street. Something's happened to you."

Beside him, Scott openly gaped, both because _Lydia Martin_ was suddenly sitting with them, and because he understood the underlying implication. Stiles had suddenly lost his obsession with Lydia since school started for the semester, and even Lydia herself had noticed. That was huge, on so many different levels.

Stiles glanced up from where he was talking with Erica.

Had he forgotten to flirt? Or, you know, what passed as flirting when you're supposed to be hopelessly in love with someone who won't acknowledge you.

It felt wrong to Stiles, flirting with Lydia, after he'd gotten to know her so much better as a person. He was almost completely certain he didn't love her anymore. Well, no. He did love her, but he wasn't _in_ love with her. Lydia was his badass research partner, and something of a high-maintenance sister, in some ways. The fact that hopelessly attempting to grab her attention was part of maintaining his cover had completely slipped Stiles' mind.

"New Year's resolution?" he offered up with a shrug. "I had an epiphany? Gave up on a hopeless cause, because I know you're out of my league?"

Lydia allowed herself a short moment to preen at the compliment. Stiles watched her almost wistfully. Such a brilliant mind was hidden away in her, but she spent so much time being overtly flirtatious that barely anyone ever noticed. Stiles missed the Lydia who had stopped caring what people thought of her.

"Well, acknowledging futility is always a wise step. Still…" Lydia leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbow on the table and pressing two fingers to her dark red lips as she scrutinised Stiles with those all-seeing eyes. "Something's wrong with you," she exclaimed, jabbing one perfectly manicured finger in Stiles' direction, "and I'm going to figure out what."

It was one of the rare moments in which Lydia acknowledged that they'd known each other for a long time and, even if she didn't act like it, she cared, at least a tiny bit, what happened to Stiles.

For his part, Stiles just laughed. "You can try," he said, the unspoken "but you'll never figure it out" audible only to him. "Jackson's glaring at me," he added, glancing briefly over his shoulder to confirm that the waves of anger rolling towards him were indeed coming from Jackson Whittemore. "You should probably get back to him before he decides he'd like to break my nose."

Lydia frowned at him, but stood from the table with a grace few could achieve in the heels she was wearing. She smoothed down her skirt and stalked away without another word.

Erica was giving Stiles an odd look. Pretty much everyone in Beacon Hills knew how Stiles Stilinski felt about Lydia Martin. To have him dismiss her without even batting an eyelash… He must be coming off quite strange.

What could he say? The last year had been an eye-opening experience. It was a shame he was the only one around to remember it. But no, it was better that way.

Still. Stiles decided it might be best to try and tone back the strangeness. He was starting to draw too much attention.

**oOoOo**

Beacons Crossing Home was somewhere Stiles never really wanted to have to go back to. He hated hospitals enough as is, but long term care units? Even worse. But needs must, and that was where Peter was.

He snuck in once visiting hours were over on Thursday evening. He was getting good at sneaking. Every time he heard footsteps coming in his direction he'd duck into a room or around a corner, avoiding nurses and hospital staff until he made it to Peter Hale's room.

Stiles locked the door behind him. Maybe that seemed like a bad idea, locking himself in a room with a psychotic murderous werewolf, but one of the nurses was in on it, and he couldn't remember which one. So he was halving the problem. Sort of.

Stiles took a deep breath and turned to face the still form of his alpha. If it weren't for the fact he could hear Peter's heart beating, he might have thought the man had died sitting in that wheelchair.

Stiles didn't have any _good_ memories of Peter Hale, but they weren't all _horrible._ Pre-resurrection, yes, horror of all horrors. But afterwards, as loathe as Stiles was to admit it, Peter had been… amusing. In his own awful, snarky manner. They'd held a sort of mutual tolerance for each other, shaky bonds of snark and sass. But Peter had always had evil vibes, and they'd been hard to shake.

He barely remembered Peter before it all. Seeing the burns that once more littered the right side of his face was a shock to the system. For a second, pity welled up inside of him, before Stiles quashed it violently. This was his alpha, yes, but Peter was _not_ his friend. Never had been, never would be.

Stiles perched on the edge of the hospital bed and stared Peter down.

He _did_ seem pretty damn non-responsive. Stiles wasn't certain Peter had blinked at all since he'd entered the room. He tilted his body left and right, but Peter's eyes didn't follow him. Shrugging, he reached out and rapped Peter on the side of the head. Still nothing.

Stiles sat back. He strained his ears, listening to the nurses wandering the hallways. When it was quiet, he reached inside to the wolf. His eyes burned gold. He growled low in his throat, a lupine rumble.

Though Peter didn't move even a fraction of an inch, his wolf responded to the call of its beta. His eyes glowed a terrifying red. He hadn't needed proof, but there it was.

"Okay," Stiles breathed out, tapping his fingers on his knees. "There's that." He rubbed suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans.

He'd been in Peter's room for a good five minutes now, and the man hadn't made any notion of acknowledging him. Was it too soon? Had Stiles barged in when Peter wasn't healed enough to move in human form?

"I know you can hear me in there. That you can understand me. And so that means you know what, who, I am. Since I'm here, I'd like to formally distance myself from your pack. Of course, I don't have another alpha to run off to, so I'm sort of doing the lone wolf thing right now, just like your nephew, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for too much longer."

The sympathetic glow faded when Stiles leaned back. He mulled things over in his head. If there was one thing Stiles had learned over the year, it was that there was definitely a bond between an alpha and their pack. And no matter what Stiles said right then, he and Peter were pack. Scott had been so fixated that first month on pretending that nothing was wrong that he hadn't bothered learning anything about pack. Connections couldn't lie. They were a primal, base sort of thing.

But could he use that to convince Derek that Peter was the alpha? If he tried, he'd have to explain how he knew where Peter was, and what had made him think it might have been Peter in the first place. This Peter's wolf smelled different to the uncle Derek had once known, wasn't that how things had gone down? That was why he hadn't realised sooner that Peter was the alpha.

Was it worth the risk?

Obviously Peter had to be stopped, there was no doubt there, but how was Stiles supposed to go about it?

He could do it on his own, or try and do it. But if he succeeded, and that was only if, _Stiles _would be an alpha. He very much didn't want that responsibility. But Peter was mad, and he was killing people, and he couldn't be allowed to do that, either.

Stiles groaned, hands grasping fruitlessly at his hair.

"I need to tell Derek. Consequences be damned."

He'd find a way. He had to.

**oOoOo**

Friday was a mess.

Stiles had thought up a dozen different ways to approach the subject with Derek, but all of them were risky. He'd even tossed around the idea of telling his dad, but that was ultimately discarded. He didn't have any hard evidence, after all, and getting the police involved would be asking for trouble. In the end he hadn't slept much.

Stiles drifted through school in a haze. He barely avoided detention from Mr Harris. Lydia had not been joking when she said she'd be keeping an eye on him. Jackson looked more pissed than normal. Scott had even stopped staring at Allison so much to gift him with his signature kicked puppy look of worry. But what was he supposed to say to him? Don't worry, I'm just wondering how badly Derek Hale's going to beat me up when I tell him his Uncle is killing people? Yeah, because that would go down well.

That was a legitimate concern though.

He had to spin the story in just the right way so that he didn't overtly denounce Peter as the responsible party, and instead present it as something they needed to investigate, leading them to Peter and his red alpha eyes of doom. Oh yeah, and somehow not seem like he was lying as he did.

How had his life come to this?

Oh yeah. Ill preparation in the face of unknown dangers. It was just Stiles' luck really that the _one time_ Deaton wasn't immediately sure what they were up against (when he was actually trying to be helpful and not confusing) happened to be the thing that left Stiles stranded in time.

And speaking of, Scott's boss was a whole other problem entirely. But so, _so_ not important.

Stiles meant to sneak away once school ended and find Derek, wherever he might have been lurking, but it turned out Derek had been thinking along similar lines, because there was Derek and his sleek car waiting in the school parking lot when Stiles shoved his way out of the flow of students leaving the main building.

He threw caution to the wind (because Scott didn't know who Derek Hale was, and right now a stranger was actually a great excuse not to bring Scott in on things) and hurried across the crowded parking lot to the other beta.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked in a rush. He was freaking out just a little because this was _too soon_ and he wasn't prepared for all this manipulation but hey, the universe never listened to him anyway. Might as well roll with the punches.

Derek's nostrils flared, and he shifted in what, on another person, Stiles would call discomfort, but he didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge Stiles except with a small, echoing growl, low in his throat but not menacing, exactly, like so many of his other growls Stiles had become accustomed to. Derek was focused entirely on…

Chris Argent.

Stiles shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck.

"That's Allison's dad," he offered quietly, opting for the oblivious route. "You know him or something?"

Derek was radiating tension.

"Or something. I'll tell you somewhere else. Get in the car."

Stiles jumped.

"What? But what about my jeep?!"

Derek stared at him like he'd just said something really stupid.

"You can come back for it later."

Stiles didn't like the thought of leaving his jeep at school for that long, but there was no point in arguing with Derek when he was in a mood, which was pretty much always. He grumbled a little under his breath, but obliging climbed into Derek's car.

They zoomed out of the parking lot, leaving a scattered group of bewildered teens watching after them, and one stormy-faced hunter.

**oOoOo**

Stiles sat tentatively on the edge of the crumbling porch of the ruins of the Hale House. Derek was pacing the ground in front of him, spouting out disconnected fragments and stories about hunters that would be _really_ confusing if he hadn't already known everything Derek was telling him. He nodded in all the appropriate places, but stayed quiet, letting Derek get the rant out of his system.

It was a nail-biting wait to broach his own shaky assault.

When Derek seemed to have run out of steam, Stiles spoke up.

"It's probably a coincidence though, that they're here, right? I mean, there's no way they could have known you were coming back to town. And the alpha hadn't done anything super obvious before Laura, yeah?"

Derek glanced back at him over his shoulder.

"You're right. I don't think they're here because of me. But their being here at all complicates things. Because he knows about me. And if you hang about with me too much he'll suspect you as well. Hunters are supposed to have a code, but the Argents aren't known to follow it. Not anymore."

"Well…" Stiles tapped his fingers together. "If the alpha gets taken care of quickly, and nothing else happens, won't he just, I don't know, leave you alone? For the most part?"

Derek was in front of him in a flash, Stiles' senses barely registering the movement. "What are you talking about? Stiles?"

He forced himself to look at Derek's face, though not into his eyes.

"I've been… It's like… You know how you were talking about pack bonds, during the full moon? I think that, maybe, I can sort of, sense the alpha?"

Derek grabbed him by the shoulders, fingers digging in uncomfortably.

"Stiles, this is massive. Do you think you can track them down?"

Stiles fidgeted, heart beating wildly. Derek was way too close, and one too many threats of ripped throats had him edgy about wolf fingers near his jugular.

"I don't know, I can try?"

Derek dragged Stiles to his feet before backing off.

"Car or by foot?"

In his head, Stiles mentally tried to calculate the distance from the Hale House to the long term care unit. It would be easier to fake by foot.

"Let's walk," he voiced, shaking himself and collecting his bag. If Derek got really pissed off from all this, he wanted his stuff with him for a quick getaway. He couldn't imagine anything worse than having to walk back to Derek's car with him while Derek was out of his mind with rage at him.

It was an incredibly tense, awkward half hour of weaving through Beacon Hills, pretending to be following some weird sixth sense. Derek, who had started with an almost terrifying intensity, had grown increasingly darker and more withdrawn the closer they came to Beacons Crossing.

Stiles was beginning to regret his decision when he stopped in front of the building and actually caught a glimpse of Derek's face. It was deadly and murderous and blank all at once. Only Derek could pull off an expression like that.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Derek's voice was the calm before the storm.

Stiles repressed a shudder and stammered an affirmative. Why oh why hadn't he told his dad he was going off on a hunt for a crazy murderer? A grounding would be better than death.

Derek marched straight into the building, no longer relying on Stiles and his pretend tracking sense. They wove through the same corridors Stiles had traversed only the night before.

Peter was almost exactly how he had left him, motionless in his wheelchair.

He considered asking some sort of question, but Stiles decided he'd much rather keep Derek's attention firmly away from him for as long as possible.

For a long moment Derek simply stared at his uncle.

"Is it him?"

Derek sounded so defeated.

Stiles couldn't stop himself. A low, sorrowful howl broke free of his lips. Peter's eyes glowed like a death sentence.

Make or break, this was it.


	4. Chapter 4

Minor edits 26/11/16

**Chapter Four:**

Derek remained silent and staring for a long time, even after the wolf had disappeared from Peter's eyes. Stiles was so terrified he didn't think he'd be able to move even if he wanted to. And he _really_ wanted to. Invisibility would have been great right about then too. Also some sort of scent camouflage. Anything, really, that would allow Stiles to slip away undetected before the silence broke.

Unfortunately he possessed none of those abilities, and remained standing stock-still at the end of the bed.

"I don't understand," Derek confessed eventually, the furious edge that Stiles had been expecting mysteriously absent from his voice.

Stiles cringed, and offered up a weak, "it might not be him," only to be immediately shot down.

"It has to be him, he has alpha characteristics now, I just don't understand _how._"

Derek kept his back to Stiles. He sounded like he was in an emotional state, and from experience Stiles knew how much Derek hated being seen as vulnerable. Still, his shoulders were a tense line of anxious muscle, and Stiles wished he had a re-do button. He could do the lone wolf thing. Probably.

"This is my uncle," Derek added, when it occurred to him that they had barged into this room with no explanation. "He's been practically comatose ever since the fire. And he's never been so good an actor that he could sit this still and not react to my presence at all. How is this happening?"

Stiles fumbled for knowledge he didn't have. When he first met the older wolf Peter had just made a miraculous recovery, but that was – Stiles checked his mental calendar – a good two weeks from now. He couldn't remember the how and why. At the time he'd been more concerned with staying alive than listening to his speech.

Since he didn't have an answer, Stiles fidgeted. He tugged at his sleeves, tapped his fingers against his thighs. If he let himself, Stiles was sure he'd be able to smell people slowly dying. He wanted out. He wanted far far away from the long term care unit, and far away from his messed up, wheelchair bound alpha.

But he stayed put, and breathed deeply through his mouth, and kept an eye latched firmly on Peter. If there was anyone he knew who could throw out a curve-ball to ruin his life, it would be Peter Hale.

"Technically speaking," Stiles said slowly, quietly, "does what happens to your uncle affect his wolf?"

Derek glanced back at him, eyes dark, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

"Say…" Stiles pushed his fingers together, and stamped down on the urge to shuffle his feet. "Mightn't it be possible that, despite your uncle being comatose, his wolf is still raging about inside? As though they were two different beings, trapped sharing a single body?"

Derek didn't respond, shifting his attention back to Peter. With those eyes no longer on him, Stiles gave in to the urge, and shuffled nervously. Tension. Waiting. Suspense. He hated all of that. It's probably what had gotten him in trouble so much in the last few months. He could no longer handle the wait for answers, for strategy, for plans.

"I don't know as much about us as I would like to. Laura was the oldest, and my mother spent most of her time teaching these things to her. She never got around to sharing much of it with me. So it's possible. But then, what do we do about it?"

Being so readily included in Derek's thought process was a strange and novel experience. Was this really what happened when you started off friendly instead of antagonistic? Stiles was sure Derek would do an about face quick enough if he went and got him arrested again.

"It's your uncle Derek, your sister. I don't think I have any right to decide what happens to him."

"Stiles, he's changed your entire life. Yes, this is all tied up in my family issues, but he's your alpha. That means something."

Oh, Stiles wished he could tell Derek how very similar this was to his old life. Not his original life, obviously, but he couldn't imagine going back to that now. Not, necessarily, because he liked this new life, but because he'd experienced too much, learned too much, to ever even consider going back to that quiet, ignorant existence.

Stiles shook his head. "Not to me. Not really. What's done is done. He can't change that, and neither can we. What's more important than any sort of revenge, is making sure he doesn't do it again. And how that happens should be up to you."

Derek sighed. Stiles probably wasn't supposed to hear it but, well, werewolf. He couldn't exactly help it.

"Go home, Stiles. I'll contact you once I figure something out."

Stiles knew a dismissal when he heard one. He didn't always _obey_ dismissals, but he left without question, eager to get away from the hospital and the tension and Peter.

**oOoOo**

Lydia cornered Stiles at his locker on Monday morning, all thoughtful and devious. He could only be thankful that Scott was running late, because her line of questioning caught him completely off guard.

Lydia leaned her shoulder against the locker next to Stiles' and made a show of looking him up and down before speaking.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

Stiles dropped his economics book on his foot. He screwed up his face in confusion and turned to face her.

"What? Who are we even talking about? Also no."

"Mr Tall Dark and Mysterious, who picked you up after school on Friday?" She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, feigning boredom with the conversation, but he could tell she was truly curious.

He laughed, a little, nervous and bewildered and a little terrified.

"_Derek?!_ No, no, noooooo. No way. Definitely not."

Stiles squinted at her, taking in the disappointed curve to her lips, and the way she wasn't looking at him. A glimpse of understanding washed over him. He wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"You're grasping at straws, really. Were you… Did you think if I'd suddenly gone gay over break then there'd be no need to be offended that I'm not falling over myself to get your attention anymore? Because if so you're being ridiculous Lydia, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. You don't even like me. You're right, that some things happened to me, sure, but the only thing that concerns you is that, while I still love you Lydia, and I do, I'm not _in_ love with you."

Stiles sighed. He picked his book up from the floor and shoved it in his bag, giving Lydia a moment to collect herself.

She frowned at him, eyes furrowed in confusion. She folded her arms over her stomach and stared at him.

"I don't understand you," Lydia said, accompanied by a small sigh of frustration. "You barely know a thing about me. Obviously I'm gorgeous, so that made sense, but all this," she gestured helplessly at him with one hand, "none of it adds up."

"You may think you're a great actor, but you really aren't." Stiles closed his locker and leaned against it, facing Lydia. "I know you hide how smart you are, but you get the best grades in our year. I know that even though Jackson's a total jerk, you really do love him." He paused for a second, mulling it over, but decided to throw caution to the wind. "I know that you're basically fluent in Latin."

Lydia's mouth fell open into a perfect little circle of surprise. She glared, and glanced around the hallway for eavesdroppers.

"How do you even _know_ that?!"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Stiles went to throw his bag over his shoulder, but froze. His Jackson sense was tingling.

"Sorry Lydia," he said in a rush. "Places to see, people to go. I mean. Nevermind. Gotta run." Stiles speed-walked down the corridor, hoping he'd moved before Jackson could see Lydia and him talking. He might not have been 100% of the douche he used to be when Stiles last saw future-Jackson, but he had never been a nice person. No need to add fuel to the fire.

**oOoOo**

Lydia was not the last person to comment about Stiles' ride on Friday. Hell, even Danny got in a surprisingly snarky joke. And Danny basically never talked to him unless Stiles bugged him first.

Stiles swore he was going to have to lay down ground rules. Number One being that Derek wasn't allowed near the school unless it was an emergency or Stiles had called him first.

Erica had teased him good-naturedly, finally at ease with the unexpected return to their friendship. She knew all the right things to say, and not to say, to keep things light. Somehow Erica had always known how to read him like that. She hadn't always used it to keep things friendly, but she'd always known.

Scott (who, it turned out, had spent the morning before class with Allison, go him) was the worst by far. While everyone else teased and joked or made stupid gestures, Scott _freaked out_. It was just lucky he had the foresight to hold it back until school was over. For once he didn't even give Stiles the imagined chance to escape, grabbing him by the arm and bodily yanking him out to the bleachers.

Once they were away from most of the student body, Scott rounded on him in a flurry of bewildered arm waving.

"What the hell have you been doing Stiles? You've been skipping class and practice, you won't return half my messages, and then you run off with some _random guy_ I've never seen before in my _life_!" Scott glared him down, all the puppy-like hurt of his usual admonishments washed away under a torrent of perhaps not misplaced rage.

It was worse for Stiles, who could almost feel a palpable anger radiating off of Scott. He flinched, because there was nothing he could say to that. All of it was true. He'd just been hoping Scott wouldn't notice as much as he had. What could he even say to justify all that? He'd been keeping things from Scott for a reason.

"It is what it is Scott. What do you want me to say?"

"An explanation, maybe? About why you've had this weird 180 switch up?"

Stiles sighed heavily, scratching at the back of his neck.

"There's nothing to tell. It's just… personal issues. My dad knows. We're dealing."

Nothing about that seemed to appease Scott.

"What happened to there being no secrets between us? Since when do you tell your dad stuff before telling me?"

Stiles groaned, burying his face in his hands and concentrating on the beating of his own heart.

"Don't you dare try and guilt me, Scott McCall. This is _not_ about you." The words were muffled beneath his fingers, but no less sharp.

Scott physically stumbled back several steps at his tone. On another day Stiles might have regretted the words, the tone, because they didn't treat each other like that, but today was not one of those days. He grit his teeth, rolling further explosions about his mind, but in the end settled for a sharp glare, biting his tongue to keep the words trapped inside. Scott stared, slack-jawed and bewildered, and Stiles took the moment to stalk off, digging into his werewolf endurance and speed to get back to his jeep before anyone could stop him.

Stiles' hands shook as he drove home. Before, he might have worried about crashing. For now, he clenched his jaw and hoped like hell that his reflexes would get him home safely.

**oOoOo**

John found Stiles in the living room when he got home, with all the curtains pulled, the room as dark as it could get during the early evening, and buried in as many blankets as his super-heated body could handle.

Stiles had heard him coming long before he made it in the front door, but made no move to acknowledge that his dad was home.

To his credit, John didn't push immediately. He traipsed upstairs, changed out of his uniform, and grabbed an apple from the kitchen before joining his son in the shadowy darkness.

Stiles peered over at him through a gap in his mess of blankets, eyes glowing softly in the dark, and a low, rumbling whine tore free of his lips.

John was visibly taken aback by the primal sound, such a strange cross between human and animal, but he bit into his apple and let the moment pass.

Stiles buried himself further into his blankets and listened to his dad's heart beating. He was a little bit embarrassed to have been caught moping in the dark, but he wasn't together enough to care, or to do anything about it. Scott had riled him up, leaving him emotionally wrung out. At first he'd been furious, because Scott had been mad, and Scott had _no right_ to call him out for acting strange when he had _no idea_ what he was going through. But that was Stiles' fault too. He recognised that.

They didn't keep secrets from each other; they told each other everything. That was how they had always been. Except for, you know, the sort of TMI stuff that Scott often _did_ try to tell him which Stiles really wished he would learn to keep to himself. But Stiles was bundling this stuff up inside himself, because knowledge was dangerous, and he'd spent so much time over the last few months hiding things from everyone – different things from different people – and Scott didn't need to be burdened by it and in the end Stiles just wished Scott would just _let it go_, for his own sake.

What made things worse was that Stiles very easily _could_ tell Scott, tell him everything, from werewolves to banshees to time travel and everything in between. Because Scott had known, once, and it had made life easier – well, it had been Scott's life messed about then, and Stiles had mostly been on the sidelines, but the knowing helped. But that Scott and this Scott were two very different people, and nothing anyone said could dispel that fact.

He was trying to _protect_ Scott, damn it! But it was getting progressively harder to convince himself that keeping everything to himself was worth the grief. This was so much worse than when he'd been keeping all the supernatural stuff away from his dad.

Stiles sighed, long and drawn out and muffled by his blanket cocoon.

"Everything okay Stiles?" John asked, in a deceptively light tone.

Stiles wasn't sure if he appreciated the softer inquiry, or if he'd rather his dad just dived straight in. He shrugged his shoulders, groaning lowly when he remembered his dad could barely see him through all the blankets. He shook his head anyway.

"Scott's mad at me."

Stiles could _feel_ his dad frowning from across the room. He couldn't really explain it, but his dad always frowned _hard_. It was a tangible sensation of disapproval, or confusion, or deep thought, or whatever it was he was frowning about at any given moment. Well, tangible to him, with years of experience and enhanced senses.

"What happened?" John paused. Stiles could hear him shifting in his seat. "Was it about the, uh, werewolf thing?"

Stiles laughed, a torn, sad sound.

"Sort of. You could argue it was. Not that he knows that."

His dad nodded, and it was Stiles' turn to frown.

"I see. He doesn't know about it. You haven't told him."

"What, you _want_ me to tell him? We are talking about the same Scott right? Goody two-shoes, terrible at discretion, realist, hopeless romantic Scott McCall? He doesn't need my problems, and I'm not unloading them all on him. That would be a horrible terrible thing to do and I can't believe you're suggesting it."

"You never seem to mind about that sort of thing when you're dragging him across town to spy on police things you shouldn't even know about."

Stiles huffed, a burst of warm fondness blossoming inside his chest, despite it all. He wasn't sure if it was fondness for Scott or fondness for his dad, but he didn't want to go examining his emotions again any time soon.

"That's different," he protested, knowing it was a weak argument. His dad would undoubtedly think so too.

Stiles mulled everything over for a long moment. If it wasn't the time travel, wasn't the other life and the deaths no-longer-real and the role reversal… Yeah, if it was just the werewolf thing, maybe Stiles would tell Scott. But it wasn't. And if he told him about the werewolves it was only a matter of time before he decided to just let everything spill out, and that could very well land him back in Eichen House.

His dad's voice broke through his increasingly depressing thought spiral.

"I know I don't have any say in what you tell Scott, but just think about it. Keeping it all to yourself isn't healthy."

Before Stiles could pull together a response his dad stood up and left the living room. He didn't turn on any of the lights as he went.

Stiles pulled the blankets tighter around himself, and idly wondered if there was any way he could spin his story to the school guidance counselor without making her suspicious. Probably not. Druids were tricky that way. At least she'd believe him. Even if she would pry way too much.

**oOoOo**

Derek Hale was the _last_ person Stiles wanted to see when he stepped out of the house on Tuesday morning, (well, okay, second last, because Peter would have given him an aneurism), but lo and behold, there he was, leaning up against Stiles' jeep and not even _trying_ to be inconspicuous.

Stiles hissed, a rush of air through his teeth as he scowled. Derek was in front of the driver's door, but Stiles wasn't above clambering over the gearbox to get in from the passenger side. Werewolf issues were so not what he wanted to deal with first thing in the morning. Not today.

He locked the front door with furious energy, missing the keyhole multiple times as he forcefully jabbed his key towards it. Not the best show when in front of company, but he was so beyond trying to impress Derek.

"Whatever you're selling," Stiles snarked, stomping along the driveway with an aggression he'd have cringed at even before werewolves were a thing that existed, "I'm not buying."

Derek's face twisted into that familiar dark scowl, but Stiles couldn't even bring himself to joke about it, even in the privacy of his head. He grabbed Stiles' arm as Stiles tried to cut around him, heading for the other side of his jeep.

"Peter killed someone else last night."

Stiles froze, body rigid, mind spinning. He killed someone? What day was it? What was happening? What had he forgotten?

"Where?"

"At your school."

The grip on his arm relaxed when Stiles made no motion to move away. He was in shock. He couldn't have made a break for it even if he'd wanted to.

Death at school, death at school… There had been a depressingly high amount of those, in all honesty, Stiles couldn't place them all chronologically, but…

Oh. _Oh._ He did remember this. Scott had flipped out, thinking he'd killed someone, but it had been Peter. Only Stiles hadn't had any weird murder dreams last night and he'd woken up safely in his bed, thank you very much.

He dug the blunt fingernails of his free hand into his scalp, berating himself. If only he'd remembered this sooner, remembered the dates. If he'd forced Derek to make a decision on Friday. If he'd done it himself. He could have prevented this. He could have, he could have…

Derek spun him around to face him, hands on both shoulders, gripping firmly. He ducked his head down slightly, catching Stiles' frantic gaze.

"Oi, Stiles, calm down. Breathe."

Stiles stared blankly at him, the words barely registering. His heart was racing, breathing rapid, his mind wouldn't _shut up_, he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't-

Derek's scowl turned grim.

"Sorry about this," he said, and Stiles didn't even get a chance to try and wonder what for before Derek had spun him again, crushing his back to Derek's chest, one arm pinning his own to his sides while Derek's hand carefully covered his mouth, cutting off his oxygen.

Stiles struggled weakly for several long moments, before beginning to take long, deep breaths through his nose. His thoughts silenced themselves, world narrowed down to _just keep breathing_, and dimly he could hear his heart begin to slow.

Derek loosened his grip, and slowly let him go. Stiles swayed, stumbled, but stayed upright without assistance. He rubbed his arms nervously and shook himself before half-turning, not quite looking at Derek but not exactly looking away either.

Stiles chuckled lowly, the sound not amused in the slightest.

"That's… probably not the best way to deal with hyperventilation," he commented drily, but his heart wasn't in it. He deserved a little panic. This was _his_ fault.

Derek agreed easily enough, but he looked worried, more worried than he had a right to be. "Should I not have told you?" he asked uncertainly. "You would have found out when you got to school anyway."

"No," Stiles said softly, and then once again, with emphasis. "It was better this way."

Derek still looked pretty unsure, but the worry disappeared quickly enough, until they were all business once more.

"The problem is, I still haven't figured out what to do about Peter. But we can't let him roam free like this, killing random people. I need advice, and I don't know where to find it."

Stiles bit his lip, stopping himself from blurting out something about Deaton or Miss Morrell, Beacon Hills' resident druids. Miss Morrell would probably tell them to kill Peter and be done with it. In the end, Stiles had no doubt that that was exactly what they'd do. It'd happened the first time around, and it would happen again. Peter's death was inevitable. Even after his miraculous recovery his sanity had been more than questionable.

"Somehow I don't think I can help you out with that," Stiles said instead.

"I wasn't expecting you to. I just came to warn you about the murder, in case you hadn't already heard from the Sheriff."

Stiles hummed in acknowledgment. Would his dad kill him if he skipped school today? He really didn't want to walk down into crime central right now. Not with Peter-stench and bad memories and the overwhelming guilt that pooled in his stomach like acid. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He'd have another meltdown, in public this time.

"Well, I'm going to go see if I can find any leads, any inspiration about how to handle this."

"Yeah."

Stiles watched him leave. He stayed outside for several long minutes, listening to the birds, inhaling the scents of nature, trying to keep his thoughts from spiralling back into the abyss. Then he went back inside, left a note for his dad on the kitchen table, and locked himself in his room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Raf97: Oh, I forgot I had something to say to you last chapter. The time travel wasn't Stiles' fault, not really. It was more of a wrong-place wrong-time scenario. I'm going to get into it later (_much_ later), but right now it's not particularly important.**

Minor edits 26/11/16

**Chapter Five:**

In the end, Stiles couldn't handle it. The bus driver's death had triggered some of those other memories he'd repressed or forgotten about and, oh yeah, Peter had killed a few more people as well. Stiles couldn't let that happen again. Not without trying to stop it. Otherwise he'd never sleep again.

So, in all his infinite wisdom, he chose the lesser of two evils, and decided it was about time he had a talk with Deaton. Bring him back into the fold, so to speak.

Unfortunately, he really could have timed it better.

He'd been holed up in his room for most of the day, fretting and panicking and scribbling new notes down in his "secrets of the future" notebook, and he jumped straight into action when his mind came to a decision.

Except school was over by then. And as he drove to the animal clinic he realised that hey, that's right, _Scott works there._ He was torn about whether or not he wanted to see Scott right then, but either way he couldn't let Scott catch him at the clinic. He didn't have any pets and they might start yelling at each other again, and he just couldn't deal with that.

Stiles stopped his jeep a block away from the clinic, cut the engine, and slumped forward, bumping his head against the steering wheel. Planning, planning, he needed to learn how to plan more than ten minutes ahead. This was how he always got himself into trouble. Lack of forethought. Not planning the right things. He groaned.

Then his phone rang.

He was so surprised by it that he answered on reflex, not even checking the caller ID, and forgetting for a moment that he had more pressing things to do.

"This is Stiles."

"_Stiles!_" There was a long, guilty pause. Long enough for Stiles to process _oh hey, it's Scott, what a coincidence_, and for him to begin to regret answering. "_Sorry, I sort of wasn't expecting you to pick up._"

"Oh?"

_"I mean, don't take it the wrong way, I'm glad you did, just, you were **really** angry yesterday. I realise that now. And then you didn't come to school, and this probably sounds really arrogant but I was worried it might have been because of me."_

Scott sounded a little bit frantic – a tiny bit breathless, his words a little more rushed than usual. He also sounded genuinely worried. In his mind, Stiles could envision the distraught expression Scott had probably been wearing all day. Unfortunately that image did little to lessen the tight ball of anxiety in his gut – if anything, it only made it worse, because yes, Scott was adorable and hard to stay mad at and also he was Stiles' best friend.

"It's…" Stiles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's a lot of things. It's been a long week. I couldn't… Dad told me what happened at the school, and I couldn't handle that, not today."

_"Oh…"_

Stiles shook his head a little fondly. Trust Scott not to fixate on things like deaths at school while Stiles wasn't around to rant about it.

_"I guess that sort of makes sense. But seriously. Dude. Are you okay?"_

He took his time thinking up a response, and for once Scott let him. Stiles had spent a lot of time perfecting the sort of semi-lies that could fool a werewolf's heartbeat lie-detector test, but even though Scott wasn't a werewolf now Stiles didn't want to lie to him. Not about something he could so easily be truthful about. Not when he was lying about so many things already.

"No." He paused, rolling the words around on his tongue. "I'm not okay. Not right now. But I will be." He hoped. He wanted to be okay. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever be fine, or great, but he could do okay. He just needed to set things straight.

Scott hummed on the other end of the line, affirmative, accepting, but uneasy.

_"I'm not going to be at work for too long today. Deaton's doing stuff he apparently doesn't need my help with. If you want I could, you know, drop by? For a little bit?"_

Stiles' heart swelled with affection, and he had to bite back the agreement he usually would have automatically given. Not today, not now, not until Peter was dealt with and he knew what was happening. Not until everything was _under control_. Then, he swore, then he'd have time for Scott.

"Sorry man, today's not really a good day. Why don't you hang out with Allison?"

Stiles was mostly sure his voice was even when he made the suggestion. He was still an uneasy whirlwind of emotions when it came to Allison Argent. Guilt was right up there, of course, but there was also bitterness and jealousy and anger and respect. Stiles wasn't sure if avoiding her was helping or hindering his emotional state.

_"Stiles! She's not- We're not… Dude!"_

Stiles could at least bless Scott's deep loving self for being easily distracted. He'd realise he'd been manipulated in a little while, but he'd get over it. Scott was good at understanding, usually. Stiles hadn't had a lot of bad times recently (in this timeline at least), but Scott had dealt with a lot of them back when his mother's death was still fresh in his mind. He knew Stiles didn't like being forced to talk, that he liked taking things at his own pace.

"I don't know who you think you're kidding, man. You've been head over heels for her since she got here. Fight well brother."

Scott laughed, embarrassed and thankful. Stiles considered that a job well done. Scott wasn't currently biting his ear off, and he had some breathing space.

They exchanged farewells, and Stiles tried his hardest not to let any of his frustration leak through. The light feeling faded the moment the call disconnected.

Stiles threw his phone onto the passenger seat, on silent this time around. He took three slow, deep breaths. Turning the ignition back on, he drove to a diner, parked his jeep out of sight, and ordered some curly fries.

Curly fries were his favourite food, his comfort food, a stress reliever. But even they did little to numb the tension thrumming through his veins, the mental battle of "do I or don't I" raging through his thoughts.

Deep down inside, Stiles knew he was never going to be able to achieve any sense of calm until he decided, once and for all, how to approach things with Scott. His life needed balance, and direction, and a goal. Stiles always worked best with goals.

So he had three things that needed sorting.

How much of his life story he dumped on Scott.

Ensuring Peter's preferably immediate demise.

And figuring out how to deal with every other impending disaster on the board.

Oh, and also figure out how things were going to go down once Derek was alpha. Derek had been sort of a terrible alpha the first go-around, and Stiles knew that was partially some sort of power anxiety, and worry about the alpha pack, but still. He needed a buffer. And Stiles might just have to be that buffer. He didn't know how he'd manage that, but he'd have to try. Derek needed to make some better choices, if Stiles had any say in it.

So, four things to sort out.

He groaned, resisting the intense urge to smack his forehead against the table and leave it there. He did not, however, resist the urge to simply lay his head on the table and stare morosely across the diner. Running away would be so much easier. He could become a werewolf hermit somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, giving aid to passing omegas and keeping away from all the problems Beacon Hills loved to attract.

Someone snickered near his head as Stiles tried to eat a curly fry lying down. He would have ignored them to wallow in his indecision, but it was a familiar voice. He glanced up, taking in the tall, lean form of Danny Mahealani. Stiles frowned, but planted his hands against the edge of the table and pushed himself back up to face him.

Stiles didn't say anything, because he couldn't think of any reason that Danny would be in this dinky diner near the animal clinic. Danny tolerated his silent stare for almost a full minute before sighing, shaking his head, and sitting down in the chair across from him. Then, just to be rude, Danny stole his last four fries.

Usually Stiles just rolled with the punches when it came to upsets to his daily understanding of the world, but this was outside his parameters for weird stuff. He glared at the empty plate for a long moment, gathering his thoughts, before meeting the Hawaiian teen's gaze head on.

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles tried not to sound angry, but he didn't think he quite managed casual curiosity. Danny raised an eyebrow at him, and leaned back in his chair, almost but not quite tipping it back onto two legs, because he was a gentleman. He looked away, eyeing up the rest of the patrons, before giving a completely unapologetic response.

"Lydia asked me to track your phone when she realised you weren't at school today."

Stiles snorted, equal parts fond and exasperated.

"Even gay guys can't resist Lydia's charm."

Danny shrugged, completely unrepentant.

"It's probably not my place to say it, but she did seem actually worried about you. Silently, of course. She won't call you out on it. But it's strange. You don't usually register on her radar."

They collapsed into silence. Stiles wasn't sure how to respond to that. Lydia probably hadn't _told_ Danny anything, like how she was determined to find out what had gotten Stiles so turned about this semester, or how he'd stopped fawning over her (though that one was pretty obvious). And even then, Stiles hadn't expected this sort of worry, this… checking up on him.

Danny watched Stiles with an unusually analytical gaze. It was unnerving, as though Danny were gathering all the answers to questions no one even knew were there to solve. Stiles wanted to know what was happening, what Danny was seeing, but asking seemed wrong. He was too scared to ask, afraid of what the answer might be.

Danny left without a word after several long minutes, and Stiles left not long after that, trying to shake off the whole thing before he embarked on his mission of the day: interrogating Deaton.

**oOoOo**

It seemed impossible, but Stiles had truly managed to forget how frustratingly vague Deaton loved to be in the few short weeks he'd been without the vet's semi-helpful advice on hand.

Stiles managed to catch the vet by surprise, slipping silently in between closing and Deaton heading home for the night. The mountain ash counter would have posed some serious problems, but it wasn't closed. Deaton was getting slack. Stupid, really, considering the _uprising_ in supernatural deaths in the area. Stiles was proof of that danger too, he liked to think, because there was a darkness inside of him that had never really left after the possession and if Deaton didn't give him answers Stiles was worried he would actually have to stop himself from maiming the man.

Deaton was in the examination room, cleaning medical instruments and restocking his drug cabinet. He had his back to the door, so Stiles managed to slip through unseen, giving him a moment to consider how best to go about this whole shebang.

Going in guns blazing seemed rash, but The Shocking Truth might be the best way to sidestep all the beating around the bush so they could get down to serious supernatural talk. Stiles hated wolfing out though. More than the enhanced senses or the glowing eyes, it was the fur and fangs that really twisted the knife in his gut, confirming once again that he was no longer human.

Stiles stood straight, and knocked his fist against the wall, alerting Deaton to his presence.

Deaton was a good actor, truly. His confusion at seeing Stiles lasted barely a second before he hid it with a look of professional patience.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said, eyes sharp but words soft, "but the clinic is closed for the day. Unless this is an emergency? Only, I don't see any animals."

Stiles bit his tongue to stop the automatic sarcasm rolling from his lips, and breathed in deeply through his nose, settling himself.

"I'm here about a wolf problem." Stiles liked to think that was just the right mix of subtlety and obviousness, with a hint of serious business. Deaton seemed to agree, for the look in his eyes became shrewd, calculating. Even so, he didn't seem eager to play along.

"I'm sorry? There aren't any wolves in California. And if there are, that sounds like a problem for someone else."

Stiles huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh, something darker and uneasy. He narrowed his eyes and stepped away from the closed door, coming further into the room. If Deaton was infuriating to be around when he was actively trying to help, it was a million times worse when he was playing ignorant.

"Didn't you hear? Some poor girl got ripped in half by a wolf. Don't you think you should do something about that?"

Deaton took a step back for every forward motion Stiles made, but it wasn't out of fear. Deaton didn't smell afraid. He knew exactly what was happening, he just didn't want to be a part of it.

"I did hear. Very unfortunate. But that's more animal control's problem. There's nothing I can do about it."

Stiles snarled, feral and not-all-human. An uncomfortable itch spread across his face, a light burning-tingling-tickling sensation that he'd grown to despise. Sharp teeth pressed against his lower lip. His eyes burned.

Deaton allowed himself the surprise this time, but there was still a distinct lack of fear that made Stiles' more primal, animalistic side very, very angry.

"Tell me how to kill a werewolf," Stiles demanded, voice low and angry and rumbling. Talking around his fangs was hell, but he'd worry about having riled himself into wolfing out later. "People are dying and you're doing nothing to help."

Deaton frowned at him, all pretenses dropped for the time being, a very serious and grave look upon his face.

"Even if I were to help, I don't know as much about these murders as you seem to presume I do. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Peter Hale!" Stiles hissed, curling his fingers beneath the examination table, grasping tight to the metal to keep himself still. "Give me wolfsbane, do _something!_"

"Dear boy, whoever you are, you're in no state to be going after an alpha."

Blind fury rolled over Stiles. His claws broke through the metal table. He clenched his eyes shut and breathed deeply through his mouth, trying to focus on scents other than those emanating from Deaton.

When he dared to, he opened his mouth, poised to say something else, but decided not to bother. He barely had the presence of mind to push away the shift before hurrying back to his jeep. It had not been a successful day.

**oOoOo**

Stiles shut himself in his room when he got home, still fuming somewhat from his trip to the animal clinic. If Deaton wouldn't help him he'd have to do it himself.

Pulling together a mental profile of all the scattered things Stiles knew about Peter Hale had, however, brought him to some startling revelations. Things he'd mostly forgotten about, things that would never have been relevant except, it seemed, for in this very situation.

Memories. They were the key to everything.

Peter had had memories locked away, taken from him. Torn from his mind by his alpha, Derek's mother. They'd only been returned to him through her claws.

Stiles could use that.

It was crazy. He shouldn't even be considering it. But the prospect was an enticing one. To forget about everything, forget about the future, the alternate timeline, whatever. To not have to remember the deaths of all those people, ones he did and didn't care for, lives that had been lost occasionally even _because of_ him. To forget everything he ever knew about the supernatural, save for the things this Derek had already told him, the things this timeline had taught him.

It could solve everything. The anxiety, the nightmares, the secret-keeping (well, most of it).

The biggest problem there would be catching Peter in a relatively sane moment and begging the alpha to take his memories from him. Resurrected Peter would probably refuse on the basis that Stiles had suddenly become interesting. He'd utilise his entire arsenal of creep-factor to tear every secret from Stiles' lips until there was nothing left and Peter knew all the things that were going to happen over the next thirteen or so months.

This Peter… was probably more or less the same, actually. There was also a chance that, since Stiles was Peter's beta, technically, Peter might use his loss of memory to enact some weird mind-control/alpha domination thing to bend Stiles' newly altered self to his will.

Stiles didn't know how it worked, exactly. How much of his memories would be taken away. If he would even have any say in it, if Peter agreed. He could become a slave, murdering people to please his bloodthirsty alpha.

Stiles shuddered, violently, a repulsed shiver racing up his spine. Okay, okay, bad idea, definitely a bad idea. Stiles had had more than enough mind-control for one lifetime, thank you very much.

He sighed, hanging his head in his hands.

Back to Ground Zero once more.

A voice from the hallway startled him.

"Stiles, the school called. Said you didn't turn up today. Is everything okay?"

Stiles glanced up from his desk, shaken from his spiralling thoughts. He'd been so deep he hadn't heard his dad's car in the driveway, let alone his footsteps on the stairs. He wrinkled his nose, uncomfortable with that realisation, because it made him vulnerable.

When he spun his chair around to face the doorway, he didn't bother trying to disguise the somewhat distraught expression he figured was splayed across his face.

"I ah, heard about the, ah, the bus driver." He couldn't get "murder" past his lips today. It made everything feel too real, a flood of one death after another in his head. "I couldn't – didn't want to – be there." Stiles gestured at his nose for good measure, because he couldn't imagine the smell of death being anything other than nauseating at best.

His dad's posture softened as he leaned against the doorframe, but he didn't come into the room. He didn't say anything else, either. But Stiles could read into his silence. _Have you talked to Scott yet?_ Yes. _About werewolves?_ No. _Are you okay?_ I will be, eventually.

Stiles didn't answer any of them aloud, letting his dad take what he would from his own silence.

The Sheriff left as silently as he arrived, but this time Stiles listened to his every footstep, tracking him through the house until he settled in the kitchen. Stiles swore not to get so caught up in his thoughts again, because that level of vulnerability, now that he was a werewolf, was unacceptable.

**oOoOo**

Stiles did, with some reluctance, return to school the next day. Scott was torn somewhere between incessant hovering and running for the hills, despite, or perhaps because of, Stiles' non-committal acceptance of his sort-of-apology over the phone. It was sort of infuriating because, even if they didn't care, with Scott acting like that everyone could _tell_ something was wrong.

Erica was blessedly silent about the whole thing, unashamedly blocking Scott from conversation for half of lunch whenever Stiles started looking uncomfortable, because Scott was a worrywart and couldn't keep his mouth shut for long and Stiles still hadn't decided, damn it, so it wasn't fair.

Stiles was pretty sure he caught Lydia eyeing them from across the cafeteria at one point, though it might have been wilful thinking on his behalf, spurred on by what Danny had said.

All in all, aside from relationship angst, his day was relatively normal. At least, it was until he went to his locker after school ended and found a note had been slipped into it.

_The Legends of Beacon Hills_, the note read, along with an author Stiles had never heard of. That was bad enough. But Stiles would bet money on it being in Danny's handwriting.

He shoved the note in his pocket and resolved to worry about it once he was home, away from prying eyes.

**oOoOo**

Stiles pinned the note to the wall and stared at it.

A quick google search had revealed that it was, indeed, a real book, not that he had ever doubted that. The question remained: why?

Danny was front and centre in Stiles' mind now. He had become this whole new anomaly all of a sudden and Stiles just wasn't sure how to handle it.

In retrospect, it made sense that the old Danny, the Danny he'd left behind, knew about the supernatural. Stiles had long ago come to the conclusion that it was very difficult to date a werewolf and not gather at least some information about them along the way. He might not have known Ethan very well – or, like, at all really – but in the end Stiles hadn't doubted that the omega cared about Danny, and he wouldn't put it past him to just tell Danny everything.

But that didn't explain the here and now. The Danny that had never even met Ethan, let alone loved him.

Danny didn't knowingly know any supernatural beings (to the best of Stiles' knowledge), but he certainly knew _something_. Or at least he thought he did. And all Stiles wanted to do was pick his brain, to _understand_, to reach through the haze and _see_, but how?

There was zero chance Stiles was just going to walk up to Danny and demand to know what his deal was. Not only would he probably get laughed at, but he didn't want to risk messing up the balance between what Danny knew, what he assumed, and what he had no idea about. That wasn't to say Stiles thought Danny would be a bad accomplice, not at all, but he'd rather no one else got involved if they didn't have to.

He wanted so badly to know where Danny fit into all of this, where he sat in the big picture, but there was just no way to find out. Hell, he didn't even know if the book was a suggestion or a threat. Danny didn't seem like the subtle threat kind of guy – Stiles imagined he'd be a lot more in your face about it if he knew something he was actually going to use as blackmail material – but assumptions just weren't enough to go on anymore.

This was all driving him nuts! Deaton refused to aid him and Derek with Peter. Danny had jumped up to Mystery Number One. And his timeline was probably getting further and further off course the longer Stiles stayed close-lipped about everything, because no one was going to slip up to Chris Argent about something nobody knew.

He needed help. He needed advice. He needed…

Miss Morrell.


	6. Chapter 6

Minor edits 26/11/16

**Chapter Six:**

Going around behind Derek's back like this probably wasn't the best way to cement pack ties or whatever, but Stiles couldn't afford to wait around until Derek made up his stupid wolfy mind. God knows where he even intended to get his 'advice' from.

It was his best, and currently only, plan in figuring out what to do with Peter. Last time was a group effort. This time he needed to be able to accomplish it alone.

Miss Morrell had been surprised to see him, because Stiles had never shown any inclination to sign himself up for a counselling session before, but even that was a hell of a lot more welcoming than Deaton. Stiles was also calmer today, with the lack of sneaking and subterfuge involved in acquiring this particular meeting. He reckoned he could control himself, and act rationally this time around.

Previous experience had also shown that bluntness was definitely the way to go with her. Marin made no particular effort to hide her knowledge, not like Deaton did, and showing he knew what he was talking about sounded like the path of least resistance. He just needed a second opinion, someone to tell him he was doing the right thing. And he knew she would advocate death over leniency.

So he settled himself in the chair, trying not to let the thought of _school __counselor_ overwhelm his rational for being there. Morrell sat opposite him. Stiles' gaze flicked to the door to her office, closed but not locked. He shrugged. If she felt the extra security was needed once he started talking, she'd do something about it.

"So, Stiles, how can I help you today?"

Stiles spat out the words before he had a chance to rethink them.

"I was hoping for advice about a wolf problem."

Morrell frowned at him. Her gaze was contemplative, scrutinising, and Stiles tried to be open to it. He needed her advice, and she had to know he was serious. After a long moment she twisted in her seat, setting her pen down on her desk. Stiles watched as she stood, flicking the lock and pulling the shade down over the glass pane in the door.

That was how he knew she understood.

When she returned to her seat the air around her changed. Gone was the French teacher, the guidance counselor, and in her place sat the druid, the supernatural guru.

"Can I assume you're asking in reference to the recent deaths that have been attributed to animal attacks?"

"More or less, yeah." Stiles tried to make himself comfortable in the chair for what was bound to be a less than pleasant conversation.

Morrell smiled thinly, as though his reaction answered several of her questions that she hadn't even asked.

"Okay then Stiles, what can I do for you?"

"Preferably, advice on how to kill a crazy alpha. How to do that and not _become_ an alpha would also be great, but I kind of feel like that part's unavoidable."

"I see. Well, I certainly won't be sad to see the county's current wolf issue dealt with. They're starting to draw unwanted attention. Did you have any thoughts in mind?"

She was still treating this like counselling, a calm give and take. Stiles didn't want to be coddled, he just wanted answers. But he should at least be grateful she hadn't dismissed him the moment he opened his mouth.

"Ideally I'd go into it with back-up. One against one is the riskiest way to head into it, but it's also probably my only option." He thought about Peter, and the mixed feelings he had towards this whole thing. Tried to ignore the thought that post-resurrection Peter might actually have made a fairly decent alpha. To quash the discomfort he felt about the idea of destroying such an invaluable information source. He wanted to say fire, but that was too vindictive. Stiles was tired of being vindictive.

"Doing it in a non-confrontational manner might be for the best. Keep everything on the down-low. I'm not sure. I just want him dead. Permanently."

A slight frown wrinkled her lips when Stiles said 'permanently'. Belatedly he realised that probably hadn't been the best way to phrase it to avoid raising suspicion.

"Well, dead is what we're aiming for here. Any sort of wolfsbane to the heart and there's no coming back. If you aimed right, it would be fairly instantaneous, and also incredibly painful. As I'm sure you're no doubt aware, werewolves can be killed the same way as humans for the most part, although it may require more force. Beheading," Stiles cringed, "excessive blood loss, anything to the heart, wolfsbane or no. Most poisons. Drug overdose – though only the high-grade stuff, no over the counter medication. But I think you already know most of this. What you're really here for is permission."

Stiles refused to meet her gaze, staring pointedly towards the door. He heard her sigh.

"I don't know why you'd come to _me_ for this reassurance, Stiles. I'm in no real position to give it to you. I can only offer my honest opinion. Whoever is out there needs to be stopped. And the best solution is often the most permanent one. Death is a natural part of life, and it comes for some sooner than it does to others. The fate of this life rests in your hands, and that may seem like a heavy burden for a teenager. All you can do is follow your instincts, and deal with the fallout, however it may come."

"I see," Stiles mumbled softly.

Morrell sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. Stiles shifted self-consciously, their discussion technically at an end, but not yet having been dismissed.

"There's something else," she commented lightly. She wasn't pushing, which Stiles found a little surprising. She was being purely observational now. "The alpha has certainly been plaguing your mind, but it's not the only thing you wanted to talk about, regardless if it was the only thing you wanted to discuss with _me_."

Stiles bit his lip, unsettled, because _how could she tell?_ It didn't take a genius to guess she was talking about his whole identity crisis regarding being from the freaking future. That knowledge in itself never went away, always at the edge of his awareness, even as the details got blurry around the edges. But was it written so plainly across his face?

Morrell laughed into his panicked silence. It wasn't a pleasant sound. Wasn't cheerful. It was biting. Cynical. This was not the guidance counselor, this was the druid, the ex-emissary, the woman whose life was littered with darkness and murder. Who could use her skills in psychology to pluck supernatural secrets from the set of his shoulders and the frown lines in his face.

Stiles jumped to his feet, now armed with knowledge and ideas but incredibly uncomfortable. He mumbled under his breath, intending to say _something_ to Morrell, but likely not getting any audible words out. He turned the lock on the door with fingers that shook only slightly, and slipped out into the hallway without glancing back.

If the wolves didn't kill him, the druids certainly would.

**oOoOo**

Stiles had managed to worm his appointment in at second period, which was both a good and a terrible thing. It was good, because Stiles had had all his questions plain in his mind since he'd been turning them over in his head from the moment he woke up. They were fresh, and he hadn't given himself too much time to get worked up about dealing with Miss Morrell and her sometimes unsettling bluntness – she was a realist, far more so than Deaton, but she was also incredibly tuned towards violence. It was terrible because everyone – okay, not everyone, but everyone that mattered – knew where he'd been, and they all wanted to know why.

Scott was still walking on eggshells around him, no longer certain what sort of things might set Stiles off again after their fight and sort-of reconciliation. That couldn't quell the curiosity though, Stiles could see it in the way he sat, in the way Scott looked at him as he picked at his food.

Erica asked him if he'd had a psychotic break. It was said in jest, and he laughed, but it must have seemed half-hearted to them, because Erica didn't seem reassured at all. If anything, Stiles would bet she was beginning to wonder if he actually _had_ had some sort of break.

He ran his hand over his head in frustration, because they already thought something was wrong. He was supposed to be acting normal, not depressed. Sure, that was probably an easy out – counselling over some recent emotional trauma that was making him snappish and out of sorts – but Stiles was adamantly burning that bridge before he fell to the temptation of taking it. He wasn't going to pile fake depression on top of every other problem on his plate.

The whisper in his mind that the depression might not be as fake as he claimed was stubbornly ignored as he sunk his teeth somewhat viciously into an apple.

"You know," Stiles said, blatantly refusing to discuss the topic any further – or at all, "Scotty, you're allowed to go hang with Allison, I hope you realise. There's no law that says you have to spend all your lunches with us. Erica and I'll be fine." He added the last part as Scott's face began to turn towards that guilty sadness and puppy dog eyes he liked so much. "She's never going to be won over by the McCall Charm if you spend all your time with us."

Stiles could see Erica's calculating gaze out of the side of his eye, but he ignored it, since she hummed in affirmation all the same.

Scott stared at them from across the table, partially offended, partially looking for permission. Scott really was transparent when it came to matters of the heart.

Erica batted her hand at him in a shooing motion. "Run along lover boy, Batman and I'll cope just fine without you sitting there pining away."

Scott stiffened a little at her dismissal. He didn't have anything against Erica, but Stiles could tell he was still confused by her presence. But the draw of Allison was greater than any imagined slight from Erica, and he left without further coaxing.

Stiles let out a sigh of relief once Scott was out of earshot, and slumped back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling. It was hard to stay silent in front of Scott sometimes without feeling immensely guilty. And this was technically for Scott's own good. It was true that he'd struggle to get in good with Allison if he was never around her outside of class.

And Erica let him brood. She was good like that. Better at sensing the mood than Scott was. He knew she was still curious, but she was good at reigning it in, none of her body language overtly questioning or wary.

He really had to thank her for that one of these days.

**oOoOo**

When someone knocked on the door, Stiles had sort of been expecting Derek – he was much more considerate at the moment and didn't come storming in through his window whenever they needed to talk – or, less likely, Scott – who usually texted or would otherwise just use the spare key or barge straight into the house. Chris Argent hadn't even been in the vicinity of that list. But there he was.

The door was only half open when Stiles considered slamming it shut in Argent's face, but aggravating the hunter seemed like a bad way to start whatever this was. Instead, Stiles stood in the doorway and made no move to invite Chris into the house, trying to appear tough without exuding _hey, I'm a werewolf_.

Feigning ignorance, Stiles said, "Can I help you?"

Chris had both hands in his jacket pockets, so Stiles couldn't tell if he was armed. He'd like to think positive – Chris wouldn't be fool enough to march up to the Sheriff's house, armed, and threaten his son. Right?

Stiles breathed deeply through his nose, but he couldn't catch the gunpowder-and-metal scent he'd begun to associate with his father's gun. There were other things though, that hung over Chris in a blanket, lingering scents that seemed almost-but-not-quite part of his own unique scent. It was probably a hunter smell. Stiles wished he had something to go off of to start identifying all the things Chris was probably carrying that had the potential to kill him.

Chris watched closely, indecisive but accusatory. Like he wanted to make a move, but didn't have all the information. Like he wanted to confirm something, but wasn't fool enough to attack the sheriff's son in broad daylight.

Stiles kept the tips of his fingers carefully out of sight. Better safe than sorry.

"I saw you with the Hale boy last week." Chris had always seemed like such a good actor to Stiles. Now though it fell flat. Maybe it was only because he knew what those undertones were saying now, but it was obviously far from regular adult concern about Stiles hanging out with an older delinquent (if Derek could even be called that). "Surely you can make better friends than that. Does your father know?"

"Does Allison know you're out threatening her classmates?" Stiles shot back, avoiding the question.

Throwing Allison's name into the mix was a touch-and-go move, because Stiles had barely spent any time in her general vicinity outside of their shared classes. He couldn't even remember if he'd spoken to her at all, or if he'd just shoved Scott in her direction and never looked at her again. It was sad. Dangerous. He should touch base, at least once. Even now, when he spent too long thinking about it, talking to her felt like talking to a ghost.

Chris squared his shoulders. Stiles knew that was a bad move, going straight on the defensive like that. He took a deep breath, tried to settle himself. He gave what he hoped was an apologetic shrug.

"Sorry, it's just, what right exactly do you have to be butting into my personal life? You've been here what, a month? And this is the first time we've spoken. Hell, I only know who you are because I've seen you picking Allison up from school, and _this_ is how it goes? Is it just me or is that weird?"

_Suspicion runs in your blood Stiles,_ he told himself, _you're the sheriff's only kid. Play on that. Move it away from Derek. Hell, go full Stranger Danger. Get him away from the house._

Hesitation flooded Argent's stance. The acrid tang in the air faded slightly, like someone putting a cap on a vial. But then the hesitation was gone once more.

"I don't know how much you know, Mr Stilinski, but Derek Hale is bad news. My sister's coming to town tonight, and us and him, we don't really see eye to eye. If you know what's best for you, you'll steer clear of him."

In other words, Stiles mentally translated, you stick with the werewolf, we're going to treat you like one. You have been warned.

"Right, well," Stiles hedged, throwing in an edge of bewildered anger and a dose of good old fashioned sarcasm. "That wasn't weird or ominous or anything. I think you should maybe go. Now. Before I decide my dad should have an early night, if you catch my drift."

If Stiles was reading him right, Argent was just the tiniest bit impressed about being threatened by a teenager who may or may not know he was running with a wolf. But he backed off, taking a pointed step back from the door while Stiles watched. Finally, he took his hands from his pockets. Chris held them up in a somewhat mocking show of submission, and stalked away with a muttered farewell.

Stiles slammed the door shut with more force than he intended, locking it behind him. There were several light claw marks in the wood that his dad would no doubt see when he left for work tomorrow, but it was inconsequential really. Chris was suspicious of him, and this time with valid reason. Logically he should have known flaunting his acquaintanceship with Derek to the school was a bad idea, but there had been more urgent things to worry about than drawing the attention of hunters.

Now he was on their radar in a bad way.

He slammed his fist into the door-frame, leaving a new indentation to join the claw marks.

He just couldn't catch a break.

**oOoOo**

Stiles was a bit of a mess when the sheriff did make it home that evening. He was lost in thought, planning and panicking, back and forth and forth and back in his mind. So John didn't ask him about the new dents in the entranceway, didn't ask him about his day. A long road of trial and error had taught them both that, for the most part, when Stiles got like this it was safest to just let him exhaust himself, rather than trying to forcibly jolt him out of it.

By the time Stiles fell into a restless sleep around 3 in the morning his desk was littered in torn pages, tired scribbles listing half-hearted action plans for operation Let's Kill Peter.

When he woke, he shoved them into a desk drawer and promptly forgot about them.

**oOoOo**

Stumbling across Derek half-conscious in the bushes outside the Stilinski house really put all of Stiles' plans on the backburner. With how little time he'd actually spent asleep last night it was a miracle he hadn't heard Derek stumble his way there, but he guessed werewolf senses weren't all that great when he reigned them all in to make way for a good think-sesh. He really needed to stop doing that.

Derek groaned at him, startlingly vulnerable in the dirt. Stiles could count the number of times Derek had been like this on one hand, and most of them had come during the Teen Derek Saga. Derek Hale and vulnerable didn't go together. At all. Any vulnerability Derek might have felt was usually hidden deep down in the dark recesses of his mind, not splayed out in the open for everyone to see.

Stiles fought the shiver of discomfort that begged to break free and threw his bag back into the house. There was no way he was going to school when the only other (sane) werewolf in the county was delirious in front of him. He crouched down in front of the bushes and draped one of Derek's arms over his shoulders. Thankfully he was still aware enough to hold his own weight, because werewolf or no Stiles didn't relish the thought of hefting that much dead weight up the stairs.

Stiles kept Derek straight on his feet and did all the steering for the both of them. He closed the front door with his elbow and briefly considered just leaving Derek on the couch. Unfortunately his dad kept a rather unpredictable schedule as of late, and discovering Derek passed out on the couch was not how he wanted that particular revelation to go down.

As they stumbled up the stairs together, Stiles took the time to take a sensory inventory. Derek's scent had become something familiar as of late, clinging faintly to his jeep, to some of his clothes, a lingering sensation of wolf that wasn't quite pack, but was comforting nonetheless. Right now, though, his scent seemed off, somehow. Sharp. A little acrid. In fact, the scent was a little reminiscent of something he'd noticed when Chris was around, but hadn't been able to put a name to.

Stiles swore violently as everything came crashing together in realisation.

Chris had _told_ him, _warned_ him even, that Kate was coming to town. Derek smelled like a hunter, like _wolfsbane_, and Stiles had only ever seen him like this once, when Derek asked him to _cut off his fucking arm_ and he was not doing that again, oh no.

Stiles dropped Derek face-first on his bed. He pushed the panic to the back of his mind, and forcefully rolled Derek onto his back, tearing the sleeve of his Henley right off. And there it was, just like he remembered it, the bullet wound and the bulging black veins full of wolfsbane.

The scent was even stronger up close, so Stiles breathed through his mouth as he inspected Derek's arm. His fingers on Derek's skin seemed to rouse the older werewolf, and Derek pushed him away, struggling to sit up. Stiles didn't offer to help, knowing it would only embarrass Derek, regardless of the fact he'd been poisoned.

For a long moment Derek didn't speak, propping himself up against the wall, and gazing with a certain intensity at Stiles' back. Stiles was rummaging around in his closet, looking for his most inconspicuous clothes for the break-in he was inevitably going to have to facilitate.

But – his hands paused their motions – he wasn't supposed to know that yet. He half turned, looking over his shoulder at Derek. "So, uh, what's even happening here? Because I don't think my house is really kitted out to be your makeshift hospital, and you don't look so great."

Derek scowled, and the tight band of pressure around Stiles' chest loosened somewhat, because if Derek was scowling at him like that then everything was still fine. For now.

"Hunters," he growled out. "They got me last night." Derek lifted a hand that trembled minutely and rested it gingerly next to the bullet wound. "Wolfsbane laced bullets."

Stiles pulled on a dark hoodie over his shirts, ignoring for the moment that he was going to overheat, and turned fully back to face the bed. He leaned against the closet door and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, trying to convey something between confusion and concern.

"I thought Chris was the only hunter in town?"

"Not anymore."

Stiles nodded thoughtfully, accepting that Derek wouldn't want to tell him about Kate or _why_ he knew who she was.

"Noted. So, you're obviously sick now. How do we fix that?"

"I need you to get one of the bullets for me."

And here comes the breaking and entering. Stiles bit his lip, thinking hard. He didn't think he'd ever actually been inside the Argent house before. He was so instantly caught up in his planning that he barely noticed when Derek kept talking.

"I… sorry for dragging you into this. I'm putting you in danger."

Stiles gaped openly, mouth open in shock. This cooperative Derek, the tiny undertones of compassion and worry, kept surprising him out of the blue. He'd been fully prepared to be stonewalled at every turn by this Derek, but he kept being proved wrong.

Stiles' mouth moved before he had a chance to think about it.

"Shut up. Don't talk like that. Like you're a burden. You're like, my mentor or something. You can't be going and dying on me. What am I supposed to do then? So yeah. Going to the Argent house is crazy. But this?" He gestured between them. "This does not end today. Not on my watch."

He blushed a little, embarrassed for letting his affectionate camaraderie for the old Derek ride through so thickly in the face of this new one. Derek seemed just as shocked as Stiles had been moments before, though he hid it better. It was an awkward moment of open emotion that neither of them were really in the state to deal with.

"Anyway," Stiles continued, clearing his throat. "I'm just going to go then. If for some reason my dad comes home, just be quiet and pretend you aren't here. If he finds you, well, I'll deal with that when I get back. No dying while I'm gone."

Jumping out the window would have made for a more dramatic exit, but Stiles was no drama queen, and he was adamant he wasn't going to develop the same attachment for sneaking through windows that the others had.

On the way down the stairs Stiles sent off a quick text to his dad, "code gold, don't worry." They'd devised it a few days ago, a quick way to let John know when Stiles needed to run out on something for werewolf related reasons. There was no way he was getting to school today, and shy of telling his dad he was skipping school to break into someone's house, this was the best way to tell him what was going on.

He locked the door behind him – no real obstacle if Kate came after Derek, god forbid, but it made him feel a little better. His jeep was noisy, which wasn't great for covert stuff like this, but he didn't feel like running across town either, so he compromised and parked a good two streets away from Allison's house.

Initially he'd been on the verge of running late for school, and that could only work in his favour now. Hopefully.

He staked out the house for a long while, honing all his focus on that single house. It was hard, trying to separate out the heartbeats from the surrounding houses, but he stayed still, calm. He had plenty of time at his disposal. All he needed to worry about was not getting caught.

He kept his hearing focused as much as he could, but when he was certain the house was empty, he snuck in the back.

Everything in the Argent house had a faint scent of wolfsbane, lingering not on the objects themselves but in the air. Stiles supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to think Chris carried wolfsbane with him wherever he went. Victoria probably did too. It confused his sense of smell, but he tried to put it aside.

It took longer than he would have liked to scout out Kate's bedroom, with half his attention on the road outside, and the other half mostly concerned with making sure he didn't touch or move anything that might be noticed. Maybe he was being a little too careful – Kate was going to notice the missing bullets after all. But paranoia was perhaps his strongest suit of all, now, and he couldn't just ignore it at the drop of a hat.

He tried not to feel bad about going through Kate's things. She was, after all, a ruthless murderer, and the cause of so very much distress over the last year. Tension kept his movements precise. He counted the time in his head as he searched.

Stiles heard a car pull up outside the house just as he found Kate's bullet stash. He moved instinctively. He grabbed a couple of bullets, shoved them in his pocket, and flung everything back where he'd found it.

He slipped out of Kate's window as the key turned in the front door.

**oOoOo**

Derek was asleep when Stiles made it back. He roused him with a firm shake, dropped one of the bullets and a lighter in his lap, and disappeared back downstairs.

He had two more wolfsbane bullets in his pocket, and he needed to decide what to do with them, preferably before the day was done.


	7. Chapter 7

Minor edits 26/11/16

**Hey, long time no see. My triumphant return, or something like that. This chapter was written over two or three months, in a random order, so there are parts that probably don't mesh quite right. But bear with me.**

**Chapter Seven:**

Derek trailed downstairs almost an hour after Stiles returned home.

He'd taken Stiles' absence as permission to use his shower, once he'd gotten his strength back, and Stiles couldn't say he blamed him. After cradling the bullets in his hands for half an hour he'd developed a certain itch that made him want to scrub his hands vigorously with hot water until his skin was raw. He imagined Derek had wanted to wash away all that remained of the very thing that had nearly killed him. The scent of soap clinging to him masked almost all of the lingering wolfsbane tang.

Now that the tension and adrenaline of the Death Countdown were gone, Derek seemed decidedly put out. He wore hesitancy and uncertainty like a second skin, with a mask of disinterest and frustration that did little to hide anything else. He leaned against the wall opposite where Stiles was sitting, arms folded across his chest. He looked a little ridiculous, wearing his Henley with only one sleeve, but it wasn't like Stiles had any shirts that would fit Derek anyway. He'd be home and changed before anyone else managed to get a glimpse of him like that.

Derek looked predictably uncomfortable for the long minute that passed where neither of them said a thing. For once Stiles didn't feel the need to break the silence, to talk his mouth off just to fill the air.

It was strange, because Derek wasn't uncomfortable because Stiles wasn't talking, not in the way he would have been, he was simply uncomfortable in that stupid emotionally stunted way of his that surfaced whenever he needed saving. Whenever he had _been_ saved.

And that should have been normal, should have been a relief, but it only made Stiles wearier. Because this, all of it, was so very tiring. He was changing from the person he knew himself to be, and he didn't know how to stop it, how to bring himself back from whatever depths he was falling into.

Eventually the silence became too much, or Derek managed to string together some thoughts in his head that weren't going to come out snappish and ungrateful, because he shifted against the wall and opened his mouth.

"They didn't see you, did they?"

Stiles was going to take that as concern, and not potential anger.

"No one was home, and I snuck out the back." Stiles rubbed his fingers along the arm of the couch. It would only be a lie of omission, but it wasn't something that needed to be omitted or danced around. He stared at the fabric of the couch, and not Derek, as he, for once, told the complete truth. "Allison's dad though, Chris. He, well, he doesn't _know_ anything, but he suspects. I'm not sure if he thinks I'm a werewolf or just that I'm in the know, but it's probably because he saw us together at school."

Stiles chanced a glance over at Derek. He looked almost pained. It took all of about three seconds for Stiles to process the potential self-loathing going on and he rushed to amend the implication.

"I'm not saying it's your fault. Knowing my luck it would have happened one way or the other, sooner or later." He hadn't forgotten those baseless accusations from last time around, everyone assuming _he_ was the werewolf when it was so blatantly Scott.

Derek ran a hand across his face. He still appeared haggard, wrecked by his brush with death, but threats to his life had never been much of a deterrent to Derek.

"I shouldn't have dragged you into this," he said, throwing back to his fevered protests, biting and bitter.

"Okay, first? I barged my way into _your_ life, not the other way around. He would have seen us together eventually, especially if he has any inclination towards keeping an eye on you. I can deal with suspicion, I'm a mouthy ADHD kid who knows exactly which buttons to push to piss people off. It wouldn't be the first time. And if you're _still_ worried about today, well, it's like I said: no one's dying on my watch, end of story."

Stiles threw in a weighted stare of his own, daring Derek to throw his hospitality back in his face. Surprisingly, Derek backed down, though with obvious reluctance, mouth pressed into an unhappy line. Stiles counted it as an unexpected win, and tried to make himself more comfortable.

Silences seemed to be their thing now. Another one threatened to overtake them. Derek was beginning to look ready to bolt at any moment when Stiles grasped hold of a different thread of conversation.

"I want to tell my dad. About you. And how you're a part of the Full Moon Gang."

Derek huffed at the name, but didn't immediately spit out a protest. Instead, he just asked "Why?"

"For simplicity's sake! Don't you think this whole thing would be easier if we weren't sneaking around behind his back? But I won't tell him if you don't want me to – it's your life."

As usual, Stiles was left wondering if he'd pushed too hard or had given too much leeway as Derek pondered the proposition. It had always been a perilous line to walk, coaxing agreement from Derek on certain topics without setting him off into an instant denial.

"He'll be less likely to try and arrest you for lurking places you aren't meant to lurk and just being generally shady, as you so often are, if he knows it's for supernatural reasons," Stiles added, for good measure.

"I do not _lurk_," Derek bit out, but the line of his shoulders relaxed, and he shrugged a little. "But if you think it'll help, go ahead. I trust you won't spread the information carelessly."

The _'Because no one's come after me yet'_ echoed oddly in Stiles' head, the implication intentional or not. Because Derek had every and yet no reason to trust Stiles. Stiles had saved his life, Stiles would be implicating himself as well if he told anyone. Stiles had stopped giving out his trust so easily a long time ago – it was strange that he often found himself thinking he might just be even bitterer than this Derek now.

"Awesome," he said instead, clapping his hands together and entwining his fingers, not sure where to go from there.

That seemed to indicate the end of their conversation, or perhaps he just didn't want to stick around until another one started up. Derek left before Stiles could pluck up the courage to tell him about the bullets, and the shaky outlines of plans he had for Peter. He wasn't sure whether to be thankful or distressed about it.

**oOoOo**

Stiles should have known his dad was going to want to talk about his supernatural emergency when he got home. He had basically given Stiles a free pass to skive off school whenever he needed to, and he needed to make sure Stiles wasn't abusing that privilege.

To be fair, Stiles _had_ contemplated heading into school around lunchtime to attend his afternoon classes, but had decided it would just raise _more_ questions. He could make his dad understand that.

Only it felt like his dad had barely made it in the front door before he started asking questions, and all of a sudden it was as though he _hadn't_ spent half the day waiting for this precise conversation.

Stiles waved his dad into the kitchen when he opened his mouth, and grabbed a coke and a beer from the fridge, setting them on the table with a thud that betrayed his nervous agitation. John raised an eyebrow at the beer; Stiles had never been one to encourage any sort of alcohol consumption, preferring to stare disapprovingly if he ever went past three bottles or a couple glasses of whiskey.

"That bad?" John asked as Stiles sat down.

Stiles bristled, opening his can with more force than necessary.

"Derek nearly died today," he blurted out. "If that doesn't qualify as bad then I don't know what does."

John sighed, apparently realising that there was a lot more going on – again – than he realised. He twisted the cap off his beer but didn't take a sip.

"It's probably best if you start at the beginning kiddo."

"I know." Stiles nodded decisively, wrapping his fingers tightly around the cold can. The words refused to come, however.

"Okay," John encouraged gently, "how about we start with Derek. Derek who?"

That was simple. Stiles licked his lips and said "Hale. Derek Hale. He came back to town looking for his sister, and, well, you know." He twirled his hand in the air.

"And the two of you are friends now? I wasn't aware you were acquainted."

"I wouldn't exactly call us friends," Stiles hedged. His hand fell back to the table. "More like… pack."

He glanced up silently at his dad, watching as the term processed. John took a sudden gulp of beer, an indecipherable look on his face.

"So, what you're trying to tell me is that Hale is a werewolf too?"

Stiles ignored the way his dad still stumbled uncertainly over the word werewolf.

"Yeah, pretty much."

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'll deal with that later," John murmured. "What on earth happened to lead to his near demise? Or were you being melodramatic again?"

"I am _never_ melodramatic!" Stiles protested. He paused with his hand hovering above the table, motion hastily aborted before he smacked the table top, which would have ruined his point. His shoulders slumped. "Okay. So we've established the baseline. Werewolves are real. But here's the thing. There are also Hunters. People who fight against supernatural creatures. From what I understand they're supposed to be more of peace keepers than ruthless murderers, but, well, some of them are sort of trigger happy."

"He was _shot?_ Couldn't he just report it to the Sheriff's Station?"

"No, dad, he couldn't. Wouldn't. Probably shouldn't. If it had just been normal bullets he would have been fine. He was shot in the arm. He could have just dug the bullet out and his arm would have healed no problem. The lack of wound really sort of ruins any evidence in his favour for a police report. That would have been a non-issue, really. Werewolf healing is pretty intense. But the Hunters, they know our biological weaknesses, can poison us at the drop of a hat. That's what happened to Derek. Poison. Wolfsbane messes with our ability to heal. It gets into your bloodstream, into your heart, and you're dead."

John frowned at him across the table. It occurred to Stiles that he wasn't simply rehashing the events of the day; he was letting his dad in on a whole new world full of things that wanted to – and easily could – kill his only child. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea after all. But he needed to get to the end.

"But Hale's fine now?"

"More or less. He'll sleep it off, or run it off, or whatever grouchy people like him do when recovering from near death experiences. He's not exactly a bucket of sunshine at the best of times, but I guess a little leeway has to be allowed under dire circumstances."

"So no one's died today?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"Well, I suppose that's a relief then." John shifted in his seat. "There's obviously more to this story, but I'm wary about how much more I want to know. I'm probably going to regret asking, but… do you know who shot Derek?"

Stiles nodded. He glanced down at the table, then back up. "It was Kate Argent."

The name apparently didn't ring any alarm bells, but his dad took it in without comment.

"I'll keep an eye on her. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Stiles paused, biting his lip. The rest of the story sat impatient on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be told now that he'd started the ball rolling. It would be so easy to just let it all out. To tell him about Chris and his thinly veiled threats. About Peter, and his numerous crimes. To let his dad deal with his alpha in whatever way the law could manage when it was based on supernatural powers and hearsay. But no. That was dangerous. He'd never approve. It would never work. It wasn't that simple.

How did that saying go? It was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

Maybe he'd be begging for a long time, but at least they'd be safe. For the time being.

Stiles swallowed back the words, and took a long sip of coke to mask the silence. He drained the can, then offered his dad a weak smile that he was sure was more grimace than anything. John rounded the table, resting a commiserating hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"This stuff is all pretty out of my jurisdiction, and way out of my league to boot, but I can always lend an ear at least. I don't want you getting in over your head, but something tells me it might already be too late for that. Just, promise me you'll try and stay safe."

The lie tasted like ash when Stiles said "I will."

**oOoOo**

His dad was technically off duty this weekend, but he went down to the station anyway on Saturday morning, claiming there was paperwork he needed to catch up on. Stiles was pretty sure his deputies and the other officers were supposed to do their own paperwork, but it seemed his dad didn't always trust them to fill it all out to his liking. Stiles used to hate that work ethic, but now it was frighteningly convenient.

It didn't escape him that there was a possibility his dad was avoiding him. Stiles wouldn't blame him. It was one thing to put on a brave face for an hour or two, pretend everything was fine, it was another thing entirely to come to grips with most of the things Stiles had divulged over the last few weeks. If he wanted to use work as an excuse, Stiles would let him. It was the least he could do after flipping his dad's world upside down.

And with him down at the Station, Stiles was free to do as he pleased.

See, Stiles had a plan. Sort of. More or less. Half a plan. A bit of a plan. Either way, he needed some liquid wolfsbane, a needle and a syringe. Maybe some other stuff. It was a work in progress. If Stiles had learned anything about himself over the last few years it was that he wasn't much of a forward planner – adrenaline and fear of death made for much better ideas than time and endless waiting.

Working at Deaton's place would have been best, since that's where he'd been learning the tricks of the trade – the druid trade that is, after much pestering – _and_ it was fully stocked with things that were actually useful. But after their not so grand first encounter Stiles didn't see breaking into the animal clinic as a viable option – Deaton might be a little more prepared to drug first and ask questions later if he continued to make a menace of himself. So he was breaking into the chemistry room at the high school instead. It wasn't like he didn't have plenty of practice with the whole B&amp;E shebang.

In the end, a lot of it was a need to keep his hands busy, to be doing _something_ even vaguely useful while he waited out the sun. There was no way he was going down there in the middle of the day, guns blazing, to kill someone. Even if that someone really kind of deserved it and it was for the greater good and all that crap.

He got some chemistry homework done too, to kill time, but it didn't amount to much.

When it started getting late, he slunk home with a vial of essence of wolfsbane, and a lone bullet that was essentially useless without a gun to fire it. A heavy sense of expectation hung over him, weighing down every step.

It was nearly over.

**oOoOo**

Beacons Crossing was technically part of the hospital, and if there was one place Stiles hated being, it was hospitals. Even if he wasn't sneaking through the dark of night towards his first solo pre-mediated murder (he wasn't sure if he wanted to count Peter's first death by fire or not), being near the place still would have made him anxious. It was instinctual.

It was late. Super late. Visiting time long over and emergency night-shift staff only late. If he checked his phone it'd be somewhere after midnight. He'd had to time it well so it was late enough that his dad wouldn't be checking up on him in his room, but not so late that he risked still being out on the off-chance his dad was going to opt for an early morning either.

Creeping through the quiet hallways of the building wasn't doing much for his nerves. Every time he heard footsteps coming in his direction he'd slip into the nearest room, wait them out, before returning to his careful trek towards Peter's room. Even now, Stiles was unsure of himself. How could he not be? Peter was a veritable psychopath, but he was also a freaking encyclopedia. Stiles had never felt good about the destruction of knowledge. He'd try not to feel too guilty this time around though. He had experience now. Anything they needed to know, he'd find it somewhere. Peter didn't matter.

Stiles slunk into Peter's room with a certain sense of trepidation. It was a relief to see that he was even there. Seeing him lying so very still in his hospital bed was… unsettling, but at least he wasn't on the prowl.

"Okay then," Stiles muttered to himself, taking steadying breaths. He locked the door, flexed his fingers, forced down the fidgety anxiety.

Peter's heartbeat was startlingly steady, suddenly coming in loud and clear. Stiles knew he was hyperaware, that he was allowing himself to get pulled in to focussing on a single sense, a single thing, and that he couldn't keep lookout like that, but it was _hard_. He was no fan of senseless murder, and this _wasn't_ senseless, it was necessary and life-saving, but still. He was still ending a life. And, to him at least, it felt as though he should at least do Peter the courtesy of giving the alpha his full attention on his deathbed.

His certainty wavered as he fingered the vial of wolfsbane in his pocket. Was this going to fix anything? Was a wolf poisoning another wolf murder enough for a power transfer? What answer was Stiles even looking for?

Stiles bit his lip, drawing blood. He considered the pack – his old pack. He thought of Erica. Of risk and reward. Of sacrifice.

He threw the syringe to the floor, crushed it underfoot. The vial he uncorked, pouring the contents over his hands, the tips of his fingers. He snarled, low, in the back of his throat, and crushed the now empty vial in his hand, watching impassively as the glass shattered, cutting his palm and healing over again. This was his resolution, his promise, his conviction.

Stiles padded silently to the head of Peter's bed, staring down at the unresponsive man who had caused so much heartache in Stiles' life. It was easy, in that moment, to forget about the consequences of what he was about to do. Really, this had been a long time coming.

His claws extended effortlessly, and he pressed the tips to the soft flesh of Peter's throat.

"Just one more nightmare for the pile, right, o alpha mine?"

For the briefest millisecond, Stiles thought it was a shame Peter wasn't awake to see this betrayal play out. Then he closed his eyes, dug his claws in, and wrenched his arm forward.

The scent of blood filled the air. Stiles' heart began pounding wildly in his chest. He tried to ignore it, straining his ears for the fading sound of Peter's pulse, blood dripping from his fingers.

When it was no more, Stiles forced himself to leave, one slow step after another.

He was undeniably a murderer now, but at what cost?

**oOoOo**

Stiles hadn't been certain it would happen. Maybe, if he hadn't been so desperate, so worried – if he hadn't touched his claws to Peter's flesh, had injected the wolfsbane like he planned – maybe then the power would have died with Peter.

But even now, locked in his bathroom, staring blankly at his deep red irises, hands steady but fingers shaking, he knew the risk wouldn't have been worth it. Both the risk of Peter getting help before he could perish entirely, and the risk of the alpha power dissipating into nothingness. _Stiles_ didn't want it, not for himself, not to keep, but they needed an alpha, one way or another. He wasn't about to let himself and Derek become a miserable pack of omegas. If this was how it had to be, for now, then so be it.

Stiles wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to hide it now, though. He'd been home for an hour and he hadn't been able to turn his eyes off. The power flowed through him, unbidden, stronger and more unruly by far than what he'd already been dealing with. It was like the volume dial was broken now, he couldn't dull his senses with a thought. Everything was full noise.

But that wasn't all. Because on top of the eyes and the ears and the teeth just this side of too sharp cutting into his lips, on top of all that, there was a howling wolf inside of him, raging and wild. It wanted something, this newly empowered spirit, but Stiles didn't know what, couldn't understand it. It screamed and begged inside of him, pulling him this way and that, and he couldn't make it _shut up_.

So he stood in his bathroom, watching himself in the mirror, caught between one moment and the next. He bit back the snarling edge to every exhale. Dug sharp nails into his palms. Tried every stupid meditation technique he'd ever seen mentioned anywhere in an attempt to calm the beast roaring in his chest, in the back of his mind.

The supernatural glow faded from his eyes eventually, but sleep wasn't forthcoming. Stiles wasn't even willing to chance it. He had little doubt that the blood on his hands – which he could still _smell_, could remember in exacting detail the warm fluid gushing from Peter's throat – would trigger nightmares if he closed his eyes and gave in. Nightmares of Allison. Of every person who'd been wounded by his hands. Of those who hadn't even been his fault. Of every death that had stained his high school years.

Right then, he was also afraid of himself. He'd been having nightmares for a long time; they were a familiar sort of enemy. But he had no control, over his body, over his reactions. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what might happen if he gave himself over completely, if the wolf didn't rest when he did. If there was ever a time for him to start sleep walking, Murphy's Law would have that be now.

He couldn't chance it. Not yet. Not so soon after everything that had happened.

But he wouldn't be able to hold out forever.


	8. Chapter 8

Minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Eight**

There were claw marks on the edge of Stiles' desk.

Coach was having a go at Greenburg – when _wasn't_ he – and that shouldn't have been enough to set him off, it never had before, but now he was burning with some unexplainable fury, snarling quietly in the back of his throat. He'd always had minor problems with authority before - he didn't like people telling him what to do, that was just who he was - but everything was spiraling completely out of hand.

Stiles had been having trouble all day, fighting off uncharacteristically violent responses to things that up until Sunday never used to bother him. It was probably a miracle he hadn't completely wolfed out on anyone yet, but at this rate it was only a matter of time. His nails had elongated and strengthened without conscious thought, gouging marks where his fingers clenched at the desk's edge; every breath caught briefly in his throat as he silenced the animalistic sounds which wanted to break free; and his eyes burned uncomfortably as he averted his gaze from the front of the room.

Coach was currently both the cause of his dilemma and his saving grace because, as usual, watching someone get chewed out was far more interesting to most of the class than actually thinking about economics or worrying about what anyone else was doing. No one paid his tense form any attention. Which would have been great about three days ago, but getting himself under control was no longer as easy as taking a few deep breaths and trying to be zen (and, actually, the whole zen thing could be super hard if anything happened in, like, 90% of his classes, but econ wasn't usually one of them).

Regardless, Stiles took deep breaths, staring down at his desk. If he avoided eye contact with anyone, tried not to bite through his lip, and kept the tips of his fingers out of sight, he should be able to ride out the rest of class. He was… angry. But not at anyone or anything in particular, and other than the coiled tension in his muscles there was no instinctual feeling of action goading him on. Score one for Stiles – he wasn't about to flip out and kill someone.

It spoke volumes about the state his life had come to that that passed as a positive worth noting.

All in all though it was a half decent plan. Greenburg had really messed up on their last assignment, plus, from what Stiles had heard through the grapevine, there had been some incident during one of the most recent lacrosse practices, and Coach had probably been looking for a chance to vent his frustration for a while now (good thing Stiles was hardly an important member of the team, or Coach might just have been yelling at _him_ instead). When he got worked up there was nothing anyone could really do but wait for him to run out of steam, and there was only, oh, fifteen more minutes left of class. It ought to be distraction enough that no real work could be accomplished between the end of this argument and the end of the period. All Stiles had to do was keep his head down and hope he wasn't asked any questions.

So, of course, that was when Danny, in the seat in front of him, knocked his pen off his desk with his elbow. Stiles twitched, a violent full-body shudder, when it hit the floor, the sound of hard plastic bouncing on linoleum rattling through him. It rolled to a stop next to his foot.

Normally he'd pick it up and hand it back, because Stiles was a nice person like that, and Danny was a friend – or teammate at any rate – and that was the sort of inconsequential nicety people who tolerated each other engaged in, only Stiles was mostly convinced that if he even attempted to pick the pen up he would snap it in half. Having to explain that didn't seem appealing at any time, but the niggling feeling inside of him that wanted to smash things and howl at the moon made it a particularly bad time for conversation. So he compromised.

With his foot, he nudged the pen out from underneath his desk, and guided it somewhat haphazardly towards Danny's chair, where he was just starting to look back to locate it. The grate of the plastic scraping along the floor was loud in Stiles' ears, but the sound was entirely inconsequential to everyone else, if they'd even noticed the pen go flying in the first place. He tapped the leg of Danny's chair to draw his attention to it, not trusting himself to be able to accurately regulate the volume of his voice.

He thought he was safe. He caught the curve of Danny's lips out of the corner of his eyes, slightly confused but mostly thankful as he leaned down to retrieve it. His gaze wandered, wondering if perhaps staring at the back of Danny's head for the remainder of class might be his safest bet. And then, between one moment and the next, Stiles found himself staring straight into Danny's eyes, the taller boy half-twisted in his seat and no longer jovial in the slightest.

Stiles watched Danny's lips move, his voice a mere breath of a whisper but the words sharp in his ears.

"Your eyes are red," Danny mouthed, and Stiles' heart skipped a beat, skipped several perhaps (_was he going to have a heart attack, after everything he'd been through, was this how it was going to end_) because there was no way this could be happening, and why did he look so _intense_ and not worried or freaked out or any of the myriad of things Stiles would probably feel if _he_ saw unexplained glowing eyes.

There was a hand curled around his wrist, words pushing through the shock, assertive. It made the wolf bristle, but he clung to it. Instructions. That was something he could handle. Someone else taking control, just for a while.

"Calm down," Danny whispered, "_breathe._"

Razor-sharp canines dug into his lip. Stiles wanted to ask why, wanted to shrug him off and run away and maybe move countries while he was at it.

"Close your eyes," Danny continued, unperturbed by the wild look Stiles was certain he probably had on his face. "Count to ten. I'll make excuses for you. When you're finished counting, leave. Find somewhere quiet. Don't worry about your things."

None if it was making any sense, but Stiles followed his instructions obediently, because Danny was ridiculously calm about this whole thing and it was a little bit infectious. He wasn't in control, but he wasn't _losing_ control either. That was a decent middle ground that he'd cling to for now.

When he reached ten Stiles opened his eyes, pausing just long enough to catch a glimpse of a reassuring smile before bolting. His textbook ended up on the floor, and Coach's confused shouts followed him down the hall, but for the moment he was finally out.

**oOoOo**

There really weren't a ton of good places within school grounds for a jumpy werewolf to hide out, so Stiles turned to their old stomping ground, the boys' locker room. It had housed many a werewolf meltdown, none of which were particularly good memories, but that's what made it his automatic go-to place.

It was abandoned, as was usual outside of regular sports practice, and far enough away from the regular classrooms that he didn't have to worry too much about people looking in on him. It was a blessing.

He collapsed in one of the shower cubicles, pressed himself against the cool tiles, and attempted to regulate his breathing.

Not for the first time, Stiles regretted his decision to head into school. He'd spent a frustrating amount of time over the last year or so keeping tabs on the werewolves in his life, and yet here he was, still over-estimating his own coping abilities. Exposure therapy was never the answer, even if it hadn't been his intention when he forced himself out of the house.

Truth be told, Stiles was worried about Derek. Mildly terrified, actually. Because he hadn't spoken to him in a few days, and he certainly never mentioned his plans to go all lone vigilante and murder the man's uncle, and surely there was no way he didn't know about what went down over the weekend, right? The authorities knew Derek was back in town, and therefore easily contactable, so even if he hadn't had some werewolf epiphany about the shift in alpha ownership then the hospital or the Sheriff's Department would have told him Peter was dead.

Derek was far from stupid. It was simple to put two and two together, especially with the rather brutal way Stiles had dragged his claws through-

For a moment, his vision swam. Right. Stiles had gotten so wound up that he'd forgotten he was trying not to think about the feel of hot blood rushing across his skin or the desperate gasping of a man who knew he was on death's door but was unable to stop trying for one more breath, one more moment.

His claws, which had finally retracted back into regular nails, came back with a vengeance, cracking the tile beneath his palm.

This was counter-productive, all of it, every single line of thought that popped to the forefront of his mind, none of it was helpful, but he couldn't just _turn it off_. Even back when the worst his mind could do to him was _hey remember that super embarrassing thing you did two years ago, let's replay that in surprising detail_ it had been impossible to shut it off, to twist his thoughts completely away from whatever thing he was avoiding that day.

Stiles sighed, long and low and wavering. Tilting his head back against the wall, he draped an arm across his eyes. "This is bullshit. I can't believe Jackson _wanted_ this." He paused, snorted a short laugh; resisted the urge to smack his head against the wall repeatedly and with force. "Well, not _this_ exactly, but dude, why. Guess I should be glad that Uncle McCreeperwolf could, once upon a time, take no for an answer."

It wasn't a comforting thought. Not really. It didn't change the facts: that he'd killed a man (mostly) in cold blood, even if it was, in the scheme of things, an easily forgivable act. Justifiable murder. For the _greater good_ of Beacon Hills, perhaps.

He wondered if there would ever come a day where it didn't make him at least a little sick to his stomach. He wondered what it would mean if that day ever arrived.

Stiles didn't know how long he stayed like that, in the corner of the cubicle, eyes closed, breathing ragged. He only opened his eyes again, somewhat reluctantly at that, when he heard shuffling footsteps entering the room. Without the owner of the footsteps saying a single word, Stiles could tell it was Danny, though it was less from being familiar with how Danny smelled and more that Stiles' bag smelled something like werewolf these days, and Danny was carrying it with him, as promised.

Danny was at the edge of the cubicle before Stiles could even decide if he should announce his presence or not. He was more perceptive than Stiles had ever given him credit for.

"I told Finstock you were ill. Naturally, he doesn't want to be anywhere near you now, so he's not issuing a detention or anything for running out like that."

Danny didn't sit down, choosing instead to lean against the edge of the cubicle. It was the laidback stance that kickstarted Stiles' mind away from murder and guilt and back to Danny's infuriating calm in the face of the unnatural.

Stiles stretched his legs out in front of him and stared up at Danny. "I don't get you at all," he said eventually, after allowing a certain silence to fall over them, in case Danny was about to break out into delayed confusion or terror.

If Danny was offended by the question, he didn't show it. He just smiled a little, the sort of smile that told of secrets but also understanding, and said, "How so?"

Mentally exhausted, but more or less fully in control of himself once more, Stiles gestured somewhat helplessly at Danny, and then at himself, and finally at the space inbetween them. "You're just too… calm, considering everything that's happened today. Why are you not freaking out?"

"Because I'm a rational human being?" Danny offered lightly, before waving a hand as if to dismiss the statement. "I'm not going to say I'm not surprised. I am. Very surprised. Especially by the red. But I've long since come to terms with the fact that Beacon Hills is a weird place. People like you, the ones who have lived here all their lives, they're very good at rationalising everything they see. They don't notice things, not because they don't see them, but because they don't _want_ to see them."

"Acceptance and this ridiculous calm are different things though," Stiles pointed out, more confused than he'd care to admit.

"Sure, that's fair." Danny shrugged. "Here on the Mainland everyone has very rigid ideas about what is and isn't real, and they shut their eyes to anything that they believe shouldn't exist. In Hawaii, everything was a lot more… fluid. Some people believed, some people didn't, but there was none of the rigidity that exists here. If you're open to the possibilities, seeing the real thing isn't so much of a shock."

"Sooo… what you're trying to say is that there are a ton of werewolves in Hawaii? That would be terrible, they'd probably be surfers and they'd smell like wet dog _all the time_."

Danny laughed, shaking his head. "I wouldn't know, you'd have to ask someone who lived there longer. Point of the matter is, Beacon Hills is only weird because people refuse to acknowledge the sort of things that live here."

"Well I'm all for keeping it that way, honestly. I don't need people _knowing_ werewolves are an actual thing. There's already one family of hunters in town, I don't need to add a big neon sign that says _werewolf this way_."

"Perfectly understandable."

Stiles still wasn't sure what to make of this whole calm, in-the-know Danny situation. It was only later, when they finished talking and parted ways, that Stiles realised what that implied. Danny had likely known all along about Scott and everything else, had known that he was dating a werewolf, had known about the cause of many a thing that was hurriedly explained away.

He wasn't sure what to do with that knowledge either.


	9. Chapter 9

Minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Nine:**

After the way things had panned out at school, Stiles was almost surprised to find that Derek _wasn't_ waiting for him when he arrived home. It would be just like the universe to kick him while he was down, after all, and what better way to finish off a bad day than with angry confrontations between werewolves?

Still, he'd take a win wherever he could find it at the moment.

He traipsed upstairs and threw himself on his bed, groaning into the covers. After two sleepless nights and two exceedingly draining days Stiles was absolutely exhausted. Still, he fought against the wispy tendrils of sleep that threatened to drag him under the moment he hit the mattress.

After much stopping and starting, Stiles managed to roll over onto his back, and, when that made zero difference to the drooping of his eyelids or the haze of _please sleep oblivion peace rest please_ in the back of his mind, he forced himself up so he was sitting against the wall. There were things he needed to do before succumbing to sleep, plans that needed making, problems that needed solving.

For a moment he considered crossing the room to find a pen and paper, or perhaps to grab his laptop, because with his current mental exhaustion there was no way he'd be remembering any plans he made, but the thought alone brought forth protests from his entire body. Stiles was used to running on _little_ sleep, not none at all.

His dad was supposed to be home for dinner tonight. Stiles was supposed to cook. He needed to go back downstairs if he didn't want to raise suspicion. He couldn't let his dad worry about him any more than he already was.

Even as he shuffled to the edge of his bed he could tell it was a lost cause. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this utterly wrecked, and the moments that came close were usually during life or death investigations (which inevitably became some sort of ambush).

Stiles didn't want to sleep. He really didn't. Not after what happened at school. But there was only so much longer he could force himself to stay awake without some sort of medical assistance, and he was _not_ going to go there. No way.

The limitations of his body were often frustrating, but there was no point in dwelling on it.

With one last burst of energy that he really didn't feel at all, Stiles kicked his shoes off, pulled off his jeans, and climbed under the covers.

He was asleep before he had a moment to try and talk himself out of it.

**oOoOo**

Stiles was happy. He felt… content. But also lonely. And frustrated. Confused perhaps. Agitated. He knew how to fix all of that. He took a deep breath-

Stiles jolted awake to the taste of blood in his mouth, a sharp pain in his tongue, and an ache in his jaw, teeth grinding together as he instinctively fought back what was no doubt intended to be a howl. Despite his sudden waking panic, the urge took a while to fade away.

It wasn't until he turned to spit the blood from his mouth that Stiles noticed he was definitely not in his room, or, indeed, anywhere inside his house. He was standing, bare feet on cold, hard ground, in the middle of a street. As a kid he'd had a period of sleepwalking incidents, but the lock on the front door confined those all to the inside of his own house; he'd never once made it outdoors.

A chill raced through him; terror and a dawning realisation forcing his feet into motion. Silent and numb, Stiles sat on the edge of the sidewalk, hanging his head and covering his face with his hands.

This was entirely outside the realm of the list of expected side-effects he'd hypothesised might come about from being a supernatural creature. Lydia had been prone to trance-like states that one might liken to sleepwalking, but she was a _banshee_ and those were death marches. Stiles was a werewolf and all he wanted was a piece of normality _thank you very much_.

Stiles' head jerked up. Though he rarely had cause to come to this part of town anymore, as his gaze darted swiftly about, he realised he knew exactly where he was. This was the street Erica lived on. Her house was just across the road.

All of a sudden, Stiles found he could put a name to the ache in his chest. It was anxiety and loneliness and _want_, but it was all wrapped up in one thing: pack. As a beta it had been there too, but quiet, unobtrusive, easy to ignore. As an alpha it was… overwhelming. It was this primal urge, and it was confused by the memories of pack that Stiles possessed, a pack that he was ignoring or out of touch with or didn't even know yet in this time.

Erica was familiar. A friend, now. A wolf, then. But somehow, always, pack.

In a way, Stiles was grateful. It seemed that, somehow, his subconscious mind and the grating instincts of his werewolf side had come to a compromise. Had he been moving purely on instinct Stiles rather thought Derek would have been the obvious choice; he had long been an important part of Stiles' old rag-tag pack, but he was also a beta in the here and now who Stiles was familiar with. Yet the wolf sought out Erica, decidedly human Erica, over even Scott, who he had been strict with himself about not wanting to involve in this mess.

He didn't want to be here, in his underwear, in the middle of the night, no. But out of everyone he knew, Erica was the person he was _least_ worried about slipping up around.

Shaking himself, Stiles forced himself to his feet, weary and wary. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but it hadn't been the most restful; he still felt like shit. Chances were he wasn't going to get any more sleep when he made it home. But, either way, he needed to get off the streets, in case his unlucky streak kicked in once again and someone saw him and called the cops.

The streets were quiet as Stiles headed home, dashing from deep shadow to deep shadow and avoiding the glow of streetlights as much as possible. Upon arrival, he discovered that he'd left via his bedroom window, rather than the front door, and found himself once again a little shocked at the courtesy his unconscious mind continued to display. Even as light on his feet as he generally now was, traversing the entire house to the front door would have been dangerous, and could easily have drawn his dad's attention – Stiles got the feeling his dad wasn't sleeping much better than he himself was, though he loathed to think he might be the cause.

It was nice that he wasn't subconsciously trying to get himself killed, but it still needed to stop.

**oOoOo**

Once more Stiles was faced with a difficult decision.

Go to school. Don't go to school. Talk to someone. Who?

He could vent to his dad, but not only would that needlessly worry him, but his dad wouldn't be able to offer up any tips or guidance on how to deal with werewolf sleepwalking.

There was Deaton, but Stiles was in no rush to see the vet again (the feeling was probably mutual), and his brand of cryptic riddles in lieu of answers was not something Stiles could be bothered dealing with when he was running on so little sleep.

Danny was… an enigma he still hadn't had time to wrap his head around. He knew things, but Stiles still had no idea how much, and this was some heavy shit to dump on a classmate.

In his heart he knew that Derek was his only option. Derek was the only werewolf in town, one of the only born wolves Stiles had ever known, and one of the few people in town equipped to deal with this supernatural nonsense.

But knowing what he needed to do and actually doing it were two very different things. At the mere thought of seeing Derek the guilt he pretended not to feel over Peter's death began clawing its way out of the dark corner of his mind where he'd locked it away. Don't get him wrong, the guilt wasn't about ending Peter's life. It was about depriving Derek of another family member.

People always said Stiles was reckless, but Stiles believed bravery was an important part of that. He wasn't sure he had the courage to face Derek.

He didn't really have a choice.

**oOoOo**

Stiles hadn't really been sure where Derek might lurk during the hours he usually spent at school. He did have a life outside of being grouchy, after all. But maybe he didn't, at this point in time, since Stiles eventually found him sitting on the charred front porch of the old Hale House.

He hesitated at the treeline, one hand pressed against rough bark. It was too late to turn back. It had been too late for at least half a mile. Nervous as he was, he'd hardly been tiptoeing through the woods. It was something of a relief, then, that Derek hadn't come to meet him halfway.

If he turned around and left, the chance of Derek coming after him was less than 5%, but if he left now there was a chance he'd never come back. Stiles would never forgive himself for running away now. Even if he didn't get any help, he still needed to come clean. He had so many conflicting thoughts and feelings about Derek Hale, but more than that, he felt like it would be betraying the Derek he used to know if he refused to front up.

He took several deep breaths, listened to the faint rumbling in the back of his head – content, he thought, because of the proximity to another wolf – and scolded himself silently for his indecision. Right now he didn't have the right to be a coward.

Derek didn't acknowledge his presence until Stiles was halfway across the clearing. Stiles used to think he was getting pretty damn good at reading Derek's expressions, but now he was at a loss. He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Derek with such a carefully constructed look of neutrality. It was unnerving.

Could he hear the way his heart pounded anxiously in his chest? (_of course he could, Stiles didn't know who he thought he was kidding, there was no way he'd miss it._)

Stiles didn't know how he was supposed to react to that expression. It would be easier if Derek was yelling, or glaring, or pacing, or _something_, anything but sitting there, blank and silent. Blank and silent was never good. Blank and silent was a lack of emotional output. Stiles needed information.

His stride wavered, slowed. Stiles folded his arms across his stomach, fingers clenched nervously in the fabric of his long sleeves. Briefly, he considered calling a greeting – silences were uncomfortable and he'd never done well with them – but words were not forthcoming. His tongue seemed heavy in his mouth, incapable of articulating any of the myriad thoughts racing through his mind.

Thankfully, Derek broke the silence when Stiles was only a few metres away.

He gazed steadily at Stiles, eyes unreadable. "Peter's dead."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and looked away. Likely that was as good as an admission of guilt anyway, if there was any chance that Derek didn't already suspect he had done it. He just couldn't handle meeting that gaze head-on.

"The Sheriff told me, when he saw me in town yesterday. I already knew, of course, I could feel it happen… Murdered, apparently, though they aren't too sure on the how or why."

Stiles flinched. Though Derek had started out fairly monotonous, the anger and accusation were beginning to slip through. Of course, he had every right to be angry. Stiles had taken the choice away from him. Derek had said that Stiles should have a say in what happened, but that had definitely not been permission to do as he pleased.

"I'm sure you already know all of this."

Stiles chanced a glance over at Derek when he trailed off. His heart sank.

Derek was hunched over, elbows on knees and head in his hands. His shoulders were slumped. He didn't _look_ mad; he looked utterly defeated.

"I…" Stiles' fingers dug deep into his arms. He rolled his options around in his head, before giving up and sitting down on the grass. There were lots of things he ought to say, to try and explain himself, to beg for forgiveness, but what came out instead was, "I sort of wish you were yelling…"

Derek's voice was muffled by his hands when he replied. "What would the point be?"

"Well… Maybe it's sort of selfish of me, but I deal better with outright anger than this whole grief and disappointment thing."

"Is that how I seem to you?"

"What? Sad and disappointed? Definitely. You _sounded_ angry, before, but then you just sort of… stopped."

Stiles had figured it was safe now to just stare at the top of Derek's head. Then electric blue eyes were staring into his own and he instantly regretted the decision. He cringed as his eyes burned in response, as he was completely unable to prevent the primal, instinctive reaction.

"I _am_ angry," Derek reassured him, a faint growl to his words. He then straightened from his curled hunch and took a long, calming breath. "But Laura used to tell me to listen to what people had to say before reacting. And the woods have seen enough of my frustration over the last two days that I think I can safely sit here and not punch you in the face. Yet."

Part of Stiles was beginning to think he'd miscalculated, and perhaps he should have left Derek to himself for a while longer, but there was always a tipping point for this sort of thing. Waiting too long to confront it would be more dangerous than fronting up too soon. He might not be prepared for it, but he would accept whatever Derek dished out.

"There's sort of a _lot_ of stuff that needs to be said. Tell me where to start?"

"How about 'why'?"

"Fair enough, I should have seen that coming." Stiles gazed down at the grass. "I don't really have a _good_ reason, certainly not one you'd believe or understand. In the end there's only really this: he killed someone – I don't know how and I never will – and he was probably going to do it again. Regardless of whether or not his next actions would be murder or turning more random citizens, I felt I couldn't take that chance. It wasn't my decision to make. I know that. But I was worried about the consequences for Beacon Hills if I waited for you to decide on a plan of action. You were emotionally compromised by the situation. I was not."

Derek slammed his fist down on the porch step. "You're damn right it wasn't your decision." His chemo-signals were going haywire, but Stiles refused to attempt to decipher them. Being able to sense it didn't give him the right to pry.

"You can punch me if it'll make you feel better," Stiles offered meekly.

For a long moment Derek seemed to consider the proposal. Back in the day he'd certainly had no qualms about getting violent with Stiles, even though he was an easily breakable human, his anger often getting the better of him. In all honestly Stiles was expecting him to go for it.

Derek sighed, unclenching his fist. "You'd heal too quickly. There's no point."

And that's why he'd been punching trees. Right. That made perfect sense, in an angry and emotionally stunted kind of way.

"Okay, okay, what next?"

Derek studied him for a moment, scanning his face. "Does your father know?"

Did his dad know what? That Peter was dead? Of course he did, Derek had already acknowledged that his dad was the one who told him about it. Stiles knew what he was really asking, but the thought made him ill.

"I… I dunno." His voice shook slightly. He cursed himself for it. "I haven't seen him too much since then. His work hours can be unpredictable, especially when someone's been murdered in a hospital I suppose." His shoddy attempt at humour fell flat. Neither of them found the situation at hand funny. "He hasn't said anything to me, or even mentioned it at all. It's impossible to tell what sort of connections and theories he's making about the whole thing since he can't exactly put things like 'related to a werewolf' in his case files."

"What will you do if he confronts you about it directly?"

Stiles flinched. These were all things he didn't want to think about. He knew he'd said he'd beg for forgiveness after the fact, but this wasn't self-defense. He had no idea how his dad would react.

"I… confess, I suppose. I imagine he'll be furious, but he can't exactly arrest me for it, what with all the supernatural stuff. Maybe he'll kick me out? I don't know if that'd be better or worse than him just being silently disappointed in me." He really hated letting his dad down. They were supposed to stick together, but he kept messing up.

After a pause, Derek leaned back, looking out over the trees.

"Even though he's been right here in Beacon Hills, Peter has, more or less, been dead to me for years. Werewolf or no, people don't have a tendency to just snap back to themselves after that long in a comatose state. Other than extinguishing that last tiny shred of possibility for his recovery, this hasn't actually changed an awful lot for me. More than anything I'm just frustrated that it had to come to this, that he took this out on Laura, and that the decision was ultimately taken out of my hands." Here he stared pointedly at Stiles, who had the decency to look apologetic. "You, on the other hand, have sacrificed a lot by taking matters into your own hands. It would probably be wrong of me to add to that burden."

Stiles frowned. This was not how he had been expecting things to play out. He'd expected to be roughed up a bit and shouted at. Had Derek always been this rational?

"You'd be well within your right to, though."

"Agreed. But I know a thing or two about guilt and secrets and death. I don't exactly relish the thought of making it worse."

"Okay. Sure. Let's say I take you at your word. What happens now?"

"Now, Stiles, you tell me why you really came here."

Ah. That obvious was it? It was true that initially Stiles had been content with the thought of avoiding Derek indefinitely, but the alpha power fiasco had shut the door on that pretty quickly.

"Fine. I need your help."

With the shift in topic, Derek leaned forward once more, elbows on knees and hands clasped in front of him.

"Help controlling your alpha abilities?"

Stiles shrugged and made a wiggling motion with his hand. "Yes and no. I don't know about you, but I do _not_ want to be an alpha. I am 100% not good alpha material. No way no how. So, short-term, yes, control, but long-term, I need to know how to get rid of it, pass it on to someone else. You, for instance."

Derek snorted. "What, because I'm prime alpha material?"

"You know what you're doing, and I trust you." The statement came out a little more intense than Stiles had meant it to. Words were one thing, but it was harder to keep the emotional undertones from his voice. He trusted _his_ Derek unconditionally, and a lot of life and death situations had built up to that. This Derek had done nothing, and was obviously startled by Stiles' admittance. To save face, he quickly continued talking. "And anyway, it's not like I know any other werewolves." Half-truth. He knew a lot, but the ones around Beacon Hills were no longer (not yet) werewolves.

Another strange look adorned Derek's face, confusion and disbelief and surprise, but he thankfully didn't comment.

"Short-term then. What's happened so far?"

"Let's see. I've had about four hours sleep total since it happened. My senses are constantly in flux between 'normal' and too much of everything. I may have sort of freaked out at school yesterday and honestly teenagers are so unobservant. I feel sorry for whoever had to use my desk for the rest of the day. Oh, and I went on a creepy sleepwalk last night." Stiles counted each thing off on his fingers as he recounted them, purposefully not going into too much detail.

"Do you sleepwalk often?"

"Not since I was a little kid. And never outside. Do you know how unnerving it is to wake up in the middle of some street twenty minutes from your house?"

"Hmm. What about school? You obviously didn't attack anyone, or you would have been here sooner."

"Yeah, no, it was mostly eyes and claws, along with lots of things being way too loud. I was agitated, and once I started feeling agitated it was nearly impossible to keep everything in check. Negative feedback loop and all that fun stuff I suppose."

"Interesting. I've never had experience with alpha powers, so I didn't think there'd be that much of a mental difference. Regardless of how you felt about it, you were very much in control of yourself before all of this. You had almost zero idea how to _use_ your powers at will, but you were instinctually very good at keeping them at bay. My best guess right now is that there's a battle for dominance in progress here. Omegas often fall prey to their more savage instincts, but it happens to pack wolves sometimes too. While you're awake, you're controlling it, more or less, but you certainly aren't _in _control anymore. If you were, you wouldn't have been sleepwalking."

Stiles shuddered.

"Okay, that's great and all, the psychoanalysis, but is there a way to _fix this?_"

"Probably. But I don't know what's causing it. It could stem from your reluctance to accept the position. It could be that you're simply too new a werewolf to handle everything that's happening. Or it might be rebelling somehow, as an alpha without a pack. I just don't have the knowledge to accurately figure out what's going on."

"Wonderful." Stiles fell backwards onto the grass, staring up at the sky. "This is just great. Fabulous. Good talk."

Stiles could hear Derek grinding his teeth. His patience apparently nearing its end.

"What I'm _saying_ is that we need more information. And an outside opinion, maybe."

"More information? What more do you want?"

"Don't worry about it. Just go home Stiles. And stop forcing yourself to stay awake, you should know that's detrimental to your health."

"Easy for you to say."

Still, Stiles didn't want to push things too much. Derek was being sort of helpful and more hospitable than he'd expected and trying his patience wasn't going to get him anywhere.

He pushed himself up off the ground. "I'll just be going then."

Derek nodded, a silent dismissal.

Stiles was in no rush to get home. He'd left his phone there, which would undoubtedly be flooded with texts from Erica and Scott wondering where he was and what he was doing and why he was skipping so much school recently.

He was a terrible friend.


	10. Chapter 10

Minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Ten:**

Stiles went home. In the end, it was his only option.

Despite the surprising words of acceptance, Derek had obviously not been totally fine with everything, and Stiles wasn't about to force his presence on him. He was grateful enough that their talk hadn't turned into a fight; he wasn't going to push it by lingering nearby.

School was a no-go. In Stiles' experience, there was nothing worse than turning up partway through the day; that was the sort of thing that got people talking. If there was one thing Stiles didn't need added on top of everything else it was senseless gossip at school; gossip was one thing when you were only sort of aware of it, and another thing entirely when you could hear all of it.

So, home it was. Still, he took the long way back, meandering about the woods for a time once he was fully out of earshot of the older werewolf. Being out in nature, distant from the sometimes overwhelming sounds of human life, gave him at least a semblance of peace.

It sometimes felt like an eternity had passed since he'd last known any actual peace.

**oOoOo**

Because he was exhausted and totally over pushing himself to the brink, Stiles decided to at least try and create some sort of cooperative understanding between himself and his uncontrollable new nature.

Derek had told him to try and accept the wolf.

Derek had told him to sleep.

Acceptance, well, he was at least trying to work on it. It was a big ask, and since Stiles still sometimes felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff where putting a single foot wrong would spell his ultimate demise, it was a step he was still incredibly hesitant about taking. Sleep though, that was something he could really go for. So, as a sign of goodwill and all, Stiles didn't even try and avoid sleeping that night.

As it turned out, he and the wolf were still not seeing eye-to-eye, and the whole sleepwalking thing was, unfortunately, not a one-time thing.

It wasn't as aggressive this time, however. The primal, grating instincts which had washed over him the night before were all much duller now, calmer. There was less desperation lingering in his mind, replaced instead by reassurance.

Stiles found that he didn't jolt into waking awareness in a panic. Instead, he merely blinked from sleep to wakefulness, somewhat resigned instead of afraid. A warm hand resting on the back of his neck anchored him in a sense of calm. He didn't need to turn to know who the hand belonged to, just as he couldn't bring himself to be annoyed or surprised by their presence.

He should have known his talk with Derek would ultimately lead to stalking. How else was Derek supposed to get a good insight into all of this when he wasn't big on talking about emotions and Stiles himself was iffy about explaining anything?

Stiles inhaled deeply, allowing the scents of the night to relax his body.

Derek's hand shifted from his neck to his shoulder, squeezing gently, before disappearing altogether. The older werewolf cleared his throat, loud in the relative silence. "So, where are we?"

In his mind, Stiles stumbled through levels of truthfulness, before settling on "a friend's house." He gestured vaguely about the street in general, not specifying which house they were there for, but Derek didn't appear to mind.

"Is it the same place as last time?"

"Yeah."

Now faced with the very real possibility that this sleepwalking was going to become a _thing_, Stiles found himself thinking he'd probably go along with just about anything Derek had to suggest at this point. He didn't feel the same panic about being caught this time, but the more often he turned up about town in his pyjamas the more likely it was that someone would stumble across him.

"We should talk."

"Right."

"Somewhere else."

"Sure, of course."

Derek pulled away from his side, and Stiles meandered lazily after him.

It wasn't the preserve Derek led him to this time – Stiles supposed he was thankful for that, given all the time he'd spent out there at night dealing with all the bullshit the supernatural world could throw at them – but the bunker. Part of him had forgotten that Derek hadn't always locked himself away in the loft. This wasn't the happiest reminder.

Despite being the one to request they talk, Derek didn't seem in any rush to kick-start a discussion. He shuffled about the bunker, perhaps a bit tense, as though awaiting some snarky comment about his current living arrangement. Stiles couldn't even remember if he'd ever been there before, and he was in no mood to pick a fight about something that petty. He tried to make himself comfortable on the ground instead, wondering how best to broach a subject he'd been wondering about without Derek accusing him of avoiding the current issue at hand.

He hung his head, playing with his fingers and staring at the ground. Sometimes direct was best.

"So, um, Derek. I was sorta kinda wanting to ask something about yesterday…" So much for not beating around the bush. Stiles flexed his fingers, forcing the words out. "Why did you ask me about my dad?"

The sound of Derek's shuffled pacing ceased. In his mind's eye, Derek was probably glaring at him, arms folded across his chest, projecting lots of surly macho werewolf vibes. He didn't really want visual confirmation. And he wasn't sure looking at him when he answered would make it easier to keep going down this line of questioning.

"About Peter?" Derek clarified, tone unreadable.

"Yeah."

"Is my answer going to change something?"

Stiles sighed. Nodded. Shook his head. "I dunno… I'm still just trying to wrap my head around why I didn't walk away with a broken nose yesterday."

"I suppose you're on the right track then." Somewhere off to the side of Stiles, Derek started pacing again. It struck Stiles as a little disconcerting that he could tell the difference between the anxious tension from before compared to Derek's present contemplative state. "You seem to care a lot for your father."

"Of course I do!" Stiles wasn't sure what that had to do with anything.

"Precisely. Moreover, it's not exactly a stretch to assume that you care about his opinion of you."

"Sure…"

He could hear Derek grinding his teeth. That made two of them that didn't overly want to be having this conversation, yet they both continued putting one foot in front of the other.

"I was weighing my reaction against your sincerity, okay? You value your father's opinion of you, but you were honestly willing to confess to everything if asked about it, which, by your own admission, poses the potential to destroy your relationship."

That particular reminder was entirely unappreciated.

"If you had lied to me, or answered in some other way, well, we would have been having a very different conversation."

_Ah_. Yes, Stiles imagined that that particular conversation would have involved lots of _claws_ and far less aid. He chanced a glance across the bunker. Derek had his back to him.

"An eye for an eye then huh?" Stiles wrinkled his nose after the words left his lips, reconsidering. "Or, more like, an eye for a heart? Because, uh, traumatic experiences aside, potential emotional damage doesn't feel like a fair trade-off for a life. It feels like… you picked a flower from my garden after I uprooted every plant you own. Or-"

Stiles' teeth clacked together as he shut his mouth suddenly, Derek groaning softly at his word-vomit.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

That was a conversation closer if he ever heard one. Sure. He could deal with that. Except now the topic would inevitably change to what Derek had wanted to discuss when he led him here in the first place. Hadn't they already had enough of a heart to heart for one day?

"Now that that's sorted," Derek turned, situating himself up against a wall, facing Stiles where he slouched on the ground. "Tell me about this friend of yours."

"What is there to know?" Stiles thought he spied a muscle in Derek's jaw tighten, so he hurried on. "No, seriously. What sort of details are you looking for here? Because while I'm all for this teamwork thing, there's a lot of stuff I know you won't care about, like how we used to read Batman comics together at lunch."

"Old friend then?"

"Um…" Stiles waved his hands in the air. "It's complicated? We were friends in elementary school but then we sort of drifted apart and like a total douche I sort of started ignoring her? But we're friends again now, kind of, at least I'm working on it. All this werewolf stuff is sort of putting strain on a whole lot of things at school. Secrets. Yay."

Stiles caught a quiet murmur of _"oh god he never stops does he?"_ and resisted the urge to smirk. He'd _just_ told Derek he was going to babble on if he didn't give him proper direction to focus his thoughts. It was Derek's fault for not taking that seriously.

"What made you reach out to her again?"

Oh, that was a sobering question. Stiles hugged his knees to his chest.

"Guilt? Regret?" They were both true. Hopefully Derek would never find out what had inspired those feelings in him. He wasn't sure he had it in him to explain the creation and subsequent destruction of Derek's fledgling pack, a group of teens Derek didn't even know.

Thankfully Derek didn't question him.

"Okay. But you're close?"

"I guess? It might be a bit one-sided though. I've got a whole lot of… stuff, emotions, whatever, going on, but I think she's still sort of confused about this whole rekindling of our friendship. It's comfortable, but we aren't close like we used to be."

"Her feelings in this aren't really relevant. The wolf feeds off of your emotions, not those of other people. Logically, would she have been your first guess of who you might run off to in a daze?"

"No. Under normal circumstances the first person I'd go to would be Scott. That's how things have always been. But he's a realist and Erica is… flexible. I've been reigning everything in with much tighter focus in regards to Scott. I don't exactly anticipate an overly favourable reaction from him if I slip up about all of this."

Derek hummed, thoughtful.

"So this… Erica, she's someone you'd be comfortable letting your guard down around?"

"Maybe?"

When he didn't elaborate, a heavy silence fell over them. Stiles tapped his fingers nervously on his arms, uncomfortable under the look Derek leveled at him.

"Whatever you aren't telling me, it's probably important."

For a moment Stiles froze, a startled, deer-in-headlights expression flickering across his face. _How am I supposed to tell him that Erica used to be dead and I'm still struggling with some stupid separation anxiety style shit about her renewed existence?!_ But then he took a deep breath, and tried to consider all the non-time-travel related things that he hadn't yet voiced.

"I may have been thinking about, uh, pack dynamics, and stuff like that, for the last while. Before, and particularly after the whole alpha thing. We're the only werewolves in Beacon County, right? And we aren't even a pack, not really, not yet anyhow, if that's something you'd want. We're more of just two guys in a mutually beneficial working relationship that involves trying not to clue the hunters in on my existence in general. I'm totally down for being pack or whatever, of course, but that's not the point. Two werewolves isn't exactly a lot, right?"

"Not exactly, no," Derek allowed, dragging his response out in a manner that managed to question every single word that came from Stiles' mouth. "That would depend on where you're going with all this."

"Well, uh, three would be better, right? And, well, Erica's epileptic, and I was thinking of maybe telling her about all of this? And offering her the choice? I mean technically I don't need your permission, because hello, I'm the alpha right now, but if it was something you'd like 100% veto then that would put unnecessary strain on this whole cooperation thing and I've got enough of that going on already thanks."

"You trust her that much?"

"Yes. Whether she says yes or not is irrelevant, I suppose. I need someone to talk to about all of this. You're on one side and my dad is on the other and then Scott and Erica are somewhere else entirely. I need someone who's familiar with all of it, you know? I don't know if it'll make things better or worse, because Scott'll still be out of the loop and he'll probably get even more frustrated at me, but I need a reprieve."

Derek rubbed his chin, gaze cast down.

"The bite doesn't always take." Something bitter filled his voice; a remembered pain. "Sometimes the body rejects the bite. That generally ends in death. Do you even understand the risks involved?"

_It'll work_, he thinks. He knows from experience. Her biology hasn't changed, he's just jumped back to before it happened. It worked once. It'll work again. What he says, however, is a deadly serious "I understand."

If Derek's taken aback by his conviction, he didn't show it. When he spoke again he'd switched tracks once more.

"If you've been considering all this, it might explain some of your behaviour. Somewhere in your mind you've already classified Erica as pack. As you've said, we aren't a pack. We could be, but we aren't. Wolves don't generally cope well without pack. That's why omegas often go off the rails. Alphas without packs probably experience that absence in a different way. I wouldn't have expected it to be that potent, but maybe that's just you as an individual. Humans can still be part of a pack. Those bonds aren't as strong, but they're still there."

"So… it's Erica's fault I'm sleepwalking?"

Derek sent him a deadpan stare.

"No. What I'm saying is, maybe it's for the best that you talk to her. Regardless of the outcome, if you accept her properly into your pack, it might calm some of the subconscious urges that have been overtaking your resting mind. You've caused a conflict within yourself, and you need to resolve it."

Derek was starting to sound like Deaton. Stiles sighed.

"So, just to be clear, you're giving me the all clear about discussing all of this?"

"Maybe leave me out of it. But it's not my job to tell you what to do with your powers. All I can do is hope that you'll be discrete about things and not draw too much attention. Argent already knows I'm a werewolf. He doesn't need to know there are also teenagers getting mixed up in all this."

"Right. Okay. Yes." Stiles jumped to his feet, antsy, mind racing. He'd had about enough of all this, and he figured Derek had probably had his fill of emotional chats for the next year (though he could also admit that he'd probably be forcing another uncomfortable conversation on the older man before too much time had passed). "Dude, thanks. For all of this. For everything."

"Don't call me dude." There wasn't as much bite to the protest as Stiles generally expected from Derek. That was likely a side-effect of all this awkward heart-to-heart stuff. Which was even more reason to high-tail it home.

"Sure, whatever. Talk to you later."

"Try not to get into too much trouble."

With that, Stiles took his leave.

**oOoOo**

Having already tried the good faith routine once that night, Stiles didn't even contemplate going back to bed when he got home. It was late, or rather, incredibly early, but there were plenty of ways to better spend his energy that didn't involve potentially more sleepwalking.

Tonight was a night for making decisions.

He'd already made one.

It was true that talking to Erica about all this was a thought that had crossed his mind once or twice, but he hadn't really had the time to take a moment and really think it out. Until Derek brought it out of him. Now it seemed like a no-brainer. One way or another, it was something he needed to do.

Then there were things he'd been avoiding. Such as lacrosse.

He wasn't sure how Coach would feel about getting emails from students at two in the morning, but no time of the day was ever good for receiving messages about players quitting the team. That was the strange thing about Finstock – if you didn't make first-line you were pretty much benched forever, but even then, he didn't like it when people left the team.

His economics grades were definitely going to suffer for this. But one day Coach was going to notice he'd stopped coming to practice; it was easier to just get it out of the way in one blow, instead of getting berated for skipping.

Quitting was going to make Scott mad. Stiles understood that he was confused, really, he totally got that, but he still wasn't settled enough in the situation to try and smooth things over with him. He needed clarity, and space, and maybe a second opinion. He didn't want to complicate Scott's budding romance – _again_ – but if maintaining his silence was only going to make their friendship crash and burn… Well, he needed more time to figure it out.

He settled himself at his desk and prepared to research until dawn.

**oOoOo**

Unrealistic though it was, Stiles had been hoping to avoid talking with Scott until Coach had talked to him about Stiles quitting the team. Then he'd only have to have one argument, instead of two separate ones about skipping school and quitting without talking to Scott about it.

Stiles had made it to school earlier than usual, with the intention of finding Erica, but Scott was obviously thinking along the same lines. He'd barely gone more than a few steps into the building before he was being manhandled roughly into the nearest classroom. Resisting would have been simple. All he needed to do was plant his feet and his supernatural strength would prevent his asthmatic friend from moving him a single inch. But he wasn't _trying_ to aggravate Scott, no matter how things might seem to his friend, so he let it happen.

The moment the door closed behind them Stiles wriggled out of Scott's grasp, mumbling irritably and smoothing out his sleeves. He walked a little way into the classroom, but Scott stayed by the door.

Stiles figured he should speak first, take control of whatever conversation was to come, but he couldn't think of what to say. He couldn't read the situation without looking at Scott, which he was hesitant to do, and cracking a joke when Scott wasn't in a receptive mood would only lead to shouting that much sooner. Fighting with Scott, especially so early in the morning, was _not_ something he enjoyed doing.

He sat on the teacher's desk and stared out across the room, waiting.

"Is this how it's going to be from now on?"

Stiles glanced over at Scott. He looked utterly defeated, slumped against the closed door, lacking the anger Stiles found usually accompanied being manhandled places.

"What are you talking about Scotty?"

"_This_. Am I going to have to start locking you in rooms just to get you to talk to me?"

Ah, there was that guilt again. Stiles bit his lip, supremely uncomfortable with the turn this was taking. Scott sounded so broken and betrayed and, above all else, _confused_, and Stiles didn't know what to do about it.

"I just, I don't understand what's happening with you anymore Stiles. You keep skipping school, you don't reply to my texts, you don't answer your phone _at all_. You barely talk to me at school, you're hardly anywhere long enough to try and talk to you _outside_ of school. You keep saying I should hang out more with Allison, and while you sound genuine when you say it, it's starting to feel like an excuse to spend less time with me. How else am I supposed to take it?"

Stiles jumped off the desk, hands flailing about in the air. This was bad.

"_Shit_. No, stop that, don't be like that Scott. You're my best friend. That hasn't changed. Maybe my word doesn't mean much to you right now, but I swear this isn't me rescinding your best bro status." He scraped his fingers across his scalp, frustrated. "This is just… It's just…" He growled, low in his throat. It sounded more animalistic than he would have liked. "It's complicated."

"Then un-complicate it."

"This really isn't the time or place for this."

"If not now, when? It's impossible to predict whether or not you'll be at school anymore. Do you really think dragging this out is going to help?"

"_Scott_," Stiles snapped, slamming his hand down on a desktop. "I can't right now, okay? I just can't. I can't have this conversation, and I don't want to argue with you. Can you just put a pause on this interrogation? I have to sort this out for myself before I even _start_ trying to explain it to you."

Scott was _not_ making it easy to keep his secrets close at hand until he could make a rational decision about revealing them. Part of Stiles itched to just wolf out right there and then, to put the seriousness of the situation out there in the open, but that _wouldn't solve anything_. At least, that's what he told himself.

He glanced up, hand curling into a fist where it rested on the desk. Scott was visibly taken aback. Stiles hadn't raised his voice, but his frustration was evident, and Scott was shocked by it. This January had not been a good month for their relationship.

"Sorry. But, can you just wait? Until _I_ bring it up? Otherwise we're just going to keep going in circles, getting mad and fighting without closure. I don't enjoy fighting with you Scott. So can you be patient for me? Just for a bit longer?"

Scott was quiet, looking anywhere but directly at Stiles. He was still in front of the door, blocking the only convenient exit. Finally, he met Stiles' gaze. "You promise you'll explain?"

"Cross my heart. I'll pinky swear it if you want."

"No, it's fine. But I _will_ hold you to that. You can't avoid it forever."

The bell startled both of them. The room they were in wasn't used first period, which was the only reason they hadn't been interrupted. Early for Stiles didn't exactly translate to early in general, and they'd used up all that free time shut inside an empty classroom, arguing. Now they were verging on late, and Stiles hadn't even had a chance to find Erica.

He cursed his luck.

**oOoOo**

Thankfully they were all in different classes before lunch. Stiles didn't think it would do anything to help his strained truce with Scott if he saw him sneaking off to talk to Erica in private.

If Erica was surprised to find Stiles waiting for her, she didn't say anything about it. She'd been taking a lot of things about his behaviour in stride since that first day when he interrupted her solitary lunch. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or if she just figured there was nothing he could do with himself that would anger or upset her more than ignoring her existence. Stiles really hoped it wasn't the latter.

He led her to a corridor somewhere halfway between her classroom and the cafeteria. Students flowed around them, uninterested in whatever they were doing, headed off to enjoy their lunch break.

"What's up?" she asked when they were still again. Stiles was glad she hadn't asked where Scott was. She was always perceptive like that.

"This is going to sound like it's coming out of the blue, but I need to talk to you. Are you free after school today?"

"Yes… But what's this about?"

"Listen. It's… big. And confusing. And important. And not something I can really talk about at school. Meet me in the parking lot after school?"

Erica scrutinised him, taking in everything, from the furrow of his brows to the slump in his shoulders, and the tension and nervousness that lingered in his voice.

"Fine. But only because I get the feeling this is going to be about why you're so god damn confusing sometimes. Call it curiosity."

"Good. Cool. Just… Don't mention this to Scott? Please?"

"McCall wouldn't believe my word over yours."

"That's not the point, but sure. Let's just… go eat."

They met up with Scott in the cafeteria. Erica kept her word not to mention anything to him, but she spent most of lunch glancing between the two of them, as though attempting to decipher their silences. She'd understand soon enough.


	11. Chapter 11

minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Eleven:**

The rest of the day passed both at a glacial pace and far too quickly for Stiles' liking. He wondered how it was possible that he was already starting to have difficulty dealing with a full day of school, when it had only been a measly handful of weeks since he started skipping bits and pieces of class. The bite was supposed to heal illnesses and the like, but it had done nothing for Stiles' ability to concentrate for long periods of time.

He paid only minimal attention in class, taking notes automatically but not processing anything he wrote. Once, when the bell rang, he didn't even notice it until almost everyone else had left the room. After that, he paid a little too much attention, and had to clasp his hands over his ears when it rang, the sound echoing unpleasantly in his skull.

He was all over the place, because he was nervous about how his talk with Erica was going to go down. The material they were covering in class was old news as far as he was concerned; he could let himself worry about the supernatural details of his life instead of lessons he'd already lived through.

Getting lost in his own head had never really gone well for him in the past. Sometimes it gave him answers, but more often than not it ended in anything from self-doubt to nightmares. Today was more of a panic response; he could pretend to be optimistic all he wanted, but there was always a sliver of terror deep down that Erica would freak out on him. He wasn't sure how he'd handle it if she did.

When school finished for the day, Stiles wasn't afraid to admit that he was worried he was rushing into things. There were probably a ton of better ways to go about this. Maybe he shouldn't be doing it at all. He didn't exactly _love_ being all lone wolf, but he was good at it. He could do it; keep everything bottled up inside. People loved saying that keeping things to yourself was a terrible coping method, but do you know what it _was?_ Safe.

In the hallway he paused, a small, insignificant obstacle amidst the flow of students. He breathed in deep, slow, calming his racing heart and spiralling thoughts. He had made a decision, taken steps towards its realisation. Now was no time for a freakout. The only thing left was to see it through.

Shoulders squared, Stiles shifted back into motion.

Erica was already waiting for him next to his jeep. It was almost show time.

**oOoOo**

The drive was fraught with tension, but Stiles got the feeling it might have been a one-sided thing.

Erica had asked if he wanted to have this talk at her place, and he'd shot her down without a second thought – it was one thing to decide he was going to induct one of his oldest friends into the supernatural, it was another entirely to risk that conversation being overheard by any members of the Reyes family. She hadn't seemed offended, merely curious, and had settled into the passenger seat and fiddled about with the radio until she found something to her liking. Thankfully she knew when trying to talk to him was a fruitless endeavour.

They arrived sooner than Stiles had expected – he had a sneaking suspicion that he may have spaced out for a significant portion of the trip, saved only by muscle memory and the routine of driving home after school every day. His dad was still at work, which was great – he wouldn't have to explain why he was now throwing this whole werewolf thing about willy-nilly – but also terrible – his dad could have been some good back-up if Erica decided he was going crazy.

Erica climbed out of the jeep once they were parked, but Stiles stayed in the car a moment longer, flexing his fingers and banging his head lightly against the steering wheel several times. Derek had told him to do whatever he wanted, but panic could be irrational at the best of times.

When he stepped out into the cool air Erica had the grace to pretend she hadn't seen him beating himself up, even though she'd been eyeing the jeep when he hadn't immediately followed after her. This was why he had picked Erica, he reminded himself. She could keep a secret, and she was rational and understanding without being overbearing or condescending. He just needed to keep telling himself that the worst that could happen was her being freaked out.

They'd be fine.

Hopefully.

Stiles unlocked the front door and ushered Erica inside without a word. He glanced over at the living room, but ultimately led her up the stairs and to his room. There was a chance he was going to need visuals, and he shuddered to think what might happen if someone glimpsed him wolfing out through the window.

In his room, Erica stretched her legs out across his bed, and allowed Stiles two full minutes of fidgety pacing before breaking the silence.

"As riveting as this is," she drawled, "I doubt this mysterious silence is what you wanted to hide from McCall." She wasn't looking straight at him. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeves, giving off a practised air of nonchalance, but despite the sarcastic edge in her voice, her eyebrows were pinched in concern.

Even without trying to sort through chemo-signals and all that emotional crap, Stiles could tell that he was worrying her. He forced his feet to still. He dropped his folded arms to hang at his sides, but quickly crossed them over his chest again, at a loss as to what to do with his hands.

"Sorry," he sighed. "It's just, there's no good starting point for this sort of thing. And it's all well and good to say that I'll explain it, but actually doing the explaining…" He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, frustrated with himself. "I've already been through this once, that should make it easier, not harder!"

"Look. I don't know what has you all riled up," here Erica gave him a pointed look, "but maybe the best thing to do is just… say it? Explain later, instead of trying to build up to whatever has you so on edge?"

"You say that like it's simple," Stiles muttered lowly, running a hand across his still-too-short hair. Still, she had a point. He just needed to say it. He needed to find the words, look her in the eye, and just tell her.

"Do you believe in the supernatural?" He winced. That was neither straightforward nor an answer. His brain was panic-stalling.

Erica fixed him with a long, piercing stare, taking in his obvious agitation. "I'm assuming this is relevant, and not just some out-of-the-blue curiosity?"

Stiles nodded, jaw clenched.

"Okay then." She leaned back against the wall, one finger tapping absently at her chin. "Ghost stories are fun, but I call bullshit on those. I'm not really sure what you want me to say? If this is leading somewhere, then… I can't really imagine any sort of creature being able to keep their existence so well hidden, you know? Wouldn't there be shit all over the internet otherwise? Of course, you'd know better than I would."

Right, because Stiles was a prolific web-surfer and Erica most definitely was not. That wasn't a full-blown denial though. He could probably work with that.

"There _is_ stuff all over the internet," he protested weakly. "I mean sure, most of it's complete nonsense, but some of it _isn't_."

Erica raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue. He started pacing again.

"And I _know_ that some of it's real because _I'm living it_. Because some shit happened back at the start of January and now I'm _not human_ Erica, I'm not, and it's kinda driving me crazy because this wasn't supposed to happen, and everything's just sort of spiralling out of control-"

Erica interrupted what was gearing up to be a real confusing ramble with a sharp "_Stiles!_" She was leaning forward now, lips pursed, frowning but not upset. Concerned. "Stiles, you're confusing me. What happened? What are you talking about?"

Stiles groaned, dragging his hand across his face. This time he'd wanted to try and explain with words, only it was very obviously not working, because he didn't want to actually _say the words_. He was talking in circles and working himself up and frightening Erica, none of which he wanted to do.

_Actions speak louder than words._ It was starting to seem like all of Stiles' conversations about the supernatural were going to begin with a demonstration. He wasn't sure he liked that thought.

"Okay," he whispered, foot tapping nervously on the carpet. "Okay, okay, I can do this, lemme just…" He rubbed his hands against his jeans. Flexed his fingers. He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply through his nose. "This is going to be startling." It was the only sort of warning he could really give.

These days the wolf, the urge to shift, sat much closer to the surface. It was part of why he had been having more difficulty keeping it at bay while he was at school. For once it was convenient, rather than a nuisance, because beforehand he'd had a lot of trouble manifesting his wolf on command.

He was turned half towards the bed, but Stiles kept his eyes closed as he coaxed the wolf out, not wanting to see the look on Erica's face as it happened.

The tingle in his fingertips as his nails turned into potentially lethal claws was something he barely noticed anymore. The pain in his jaw as his teeth changed while his mouth was clamped tightly shut, that was less easy to ignore. It ached, fangs scraping against each other, against the inside of his mouth. The sensation of bones rearranging themselves in his face, well, _that_ was something he could do without.

Shifting without adrenaline pumping through his system meant he could really _feel_ all the changes happening, and it was _unpleasant_. Hopefully he wasn't going to make a habit of it.

Stiles tried not to listen, either, not sure he wanted to face Erica's reaction full stop, but it was so much harder to dull his hearing when he was shifted. He heard her breathing hitch, a surprised stumble in her heartbeat, then relative silence for what _felt_ like a really long time.

Erica took a breath – shaky on the inhale, steady on the exhale – and then she spoke.

"What."

It definitely wasn't a question. The word came out flat, a little disbelieving, a little confused, without the questioning lilt at the end.

Stiles opened his eyes, though with some reluctance. Erica's heartbeat flickered again, no doubt at the glowing red that had replaced his usual whiskey irises, but outwardly she _appeared_ calm. Or, as calm as one can be when someone they know has just shown their decidedly less-than-human side.

Cautiously, Stiles lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "Surprise?" The word sounded strange when he said it, the tiniest hint of a growl present even though he wasn't angry or trying to be intimidating. It was hard speaking regularly through a mouthful of fangs.

"Surprise indeed," he heard Erica mutter to herself.

Stiles wanted to grimace but, well, he'd spent enough time looking at various other wolves to know that just about every emotion in the book looked ridiculous on a shifted face, what with the mouthful of sharp teeth and the nose thing and, just, pretty much everything. He willed the shift away. His face returned to normal, but his claws and eyes stayed put – another downside of his nerves and the lack of adrenaline.

He cupped the back of his neck with both hands, careful of his pointed nails. His gaze rested on a patch of his duvet, just off to Erica's left.

"So, uh, explanation time now?" Stiles paused, but he wasn't really waiting for an answer. He nodded to himself. "Explanation time," he repeated, voice firmer this time, focusing on the fact that Erica hadn't run off screaming. "How do I put this…? Ah. How about – werewolves are a thing. That's probably where I should start, huh? Werewolves are a thing, and I'm a werewolf, and only-" he paused to count on his fingers "-five people know about it. Well, six now, with you. Lucky number six, or whatever. We could start a club. Or a gang. Whatever floats your boat I guess. I wonder what we'd call it. Probably something punny, otherwise what's the point?"

"_Stiles._"

"Sorry, yes, so not the point." He sighed. His train of thought had been efficiently derailed, but a lot of his patchwork confidence disappeared along with it. "I'm not good at the explaining part," he admitted quietly. "Can you, maybe, ask questions instead?"

"I suppose."

On his bed, Erica slouched back against the wall once more, tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling. She hugged her knees loosely to her chest.

"I guess I'll start with something easy. Who are the other five people?"

Easy huh? Stiles chuckled nervously.

"Uh, well, first off there's my dad. He sat me down one night and was all 'Stiles, are you having a teenage crisis-slash-rebellious period? Because I don't have time for this right now, there's some weird murders that need investigating.' And I was like 'Dad, you'll be pleased to know that I'm not up to any weird teen rebel stuff; I'm not on drugs or anything. In fact, all that's happened is that I maybe sort of got bit by a crazy werewolf while I was out in the preserve at night when I definitely wasn't supposed to be.'"

Erica snickered in amusement as he not only mimicked his dad, but also himself. Stiles cleared his throat to try and cover his embarrassment.

"So, yeah, anyway, he's sort of cool with it. Or something. Tolerant. Knows. Then there's sort of the school guidance counsellor, Scott's boss Dr Deaton, Derek Hale, and… Danny." He almost whispered Danny's name, hoping to gloss over that particular part, but it grabbed Erica's attention immediately.

"Excuse me, _Danny?_ As in, goalie for the lacrosse team Danny? Danny _Mahealani?_ You told _Danny_ before you told me?! Are you even friends with Danny?"

Stiles flung his hands out, happy to see that his claws were mostly gone now, trying to hold off Erica's indignation for a moment.

"Hold up, hold up, I didn't technically _tell_ Danny anything. He's always been weirdly perceptive. I guess he just knew enough stuff about all this in general to be able to tell what had happened. It's hardly my fault if someone looks at me and their first thought is 'that guy's definitely a werewolf'! Although I may have… _growled_ at him. Once. In class. That was probably pretty telling. Anyway! I don't know why you're complaining, since you now know and Scott doesn't."

Erica hummed thoughtfully at that, bringing her gaze down from the ceiling to eye Stiles curiously.

"I was starting to wonder about that. What with you making me promise not to tell McCall we were going to have a talk. You two are like joined at the hip or something – or at least you used to be. So what's the deal there?"

Memories of how Scott had refused to believe his own lycanthropy until it was almost too late flooded Stiles' mind for a moment, until he shook them off.

"There're a lot of reasons. You're a lot more open-minded about stuff than Scott is; he'll go along with things in theory, but he gets kinda defensive if you start trying to put this sort of thing in a real-life light. I don't want to accidentally mess up anything between him and Allison either, which I am almost 100% sure I would do if I started just unloading all of this werewolf crap on him. And I also… sort of, uh, had a proposition for you, I guess you could say."

"A proposition?"

"Or an offer. Or whatever you want to call it."

"And it has to do with werewolves?"

"Yeah." Stiles sunk into his desk chair and spun around a few times, collecting his thoughts. "Being a werewolf… heals things." Except it hadn't done anything for Stiles, or for Liam. Mental health was apparently outside of the supernatural jurisdiction. "Listen, I know you've stopped taking your epilepsy medication. You can't stand the side-effects, right? And nothing too bad has happened in the last few weeks, but you're probably a little on edge without it. Not knowing when something might strike."

As he spoke, Erica's heartbeat picked up. Anger, surprise, confusion. He didn't want to know for sure, wasn't trying to pick things apart. Maybe it was fear? As far as he knew she hadn't told anyone about it, after all.

"The point is, I could help with that. There are a lot of dangers that come with being a werewolf, but it _would_ get rid of your epilepsy. You wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. And you'd have me and probably Derek to help out with all the supernatural stuff. The wolves of Beacon Hills have to stick together and all that.

When Erica spoke again her voice was quiet, a little thin. "You're saying… I wouldn't have to worry about my medication, or getting taunted again from whenever my next public fit happens? It would just… stop?"

Stiles cringed at the reminder of that old video. Teenagers were cruel.

"It would stop. I swear it to you."

"I…" She cleared her throat. Stiles thought he could smell tears. "Where does Derek fit into all of this?" she asked instead of voicing whatever thought had been on the tip of her tongue.

"Derek's a rogue beta, straddling the line of being an omega really. He was in a pack, but it was just him and his sister, and his sister is, well, some shit went down and she's dead now. He's been teaching me, a little bit, and it's like I said. We wolves should stick together. I've got some unfortunate first-hand insight into how a werewolf doesn't like to be alone. I think we two could be a bit of a ramshackle pack, if he wanted. Or three, if you wanted it. Or just two if you did but he didn't. He's sort of a downer, but he's mad and lonely, and I think that's a bad combination."

"Could I…" Erica shifted uncertainly on the bed. "Would it be all right if I met him? First. Before I think about trying to make a decision about all of this."

"I don't see why not." Stiles reached for his phone, but paused, hand hovering in the air. "But I'd have to go track him down. I don't actually have his number. Would you be okay with chilling here alone for a bit while I go find him?"

"Sure. I'll just… watch tv or something. I'll be fine."

"Okay then. Feel free to do whatever. My dad won't be home for another couple of hours. Hopefully I won't be gone too long."

For a second Stiles contemplated leaving via his bedroom window, just because he could, but it felt like overkill. There was no need to freak Erica out with an unexpected show of daredevilry.

**oOoOo**

After he left the house, Stiles almost caught himself heading out in the direction of the Loft. It was so ingrained in him now that that was generally where to find Derek that he occasionally forgot that Derek hadn't _bought_ the loft yet. Luckily, Derek was still fairly predictable.

Some part of Stiles couldn't help but pity Derek a little; in the early days – now – he spent so much time torturing himself, skulking around the burnt shell of his old family home. It made him easy to find, yes, but it was incredibly sad to witness, knowing what Stiles did about the whole thing. It coated every conversation they had near the house in a haze of sadness that he couldn't seem to shake, no matter how he tried to ignore it.

Derek was upstairs when Stiles wandered into the clearing. He knew Derek would have heard him coming, could hear him shifting about on the fragile floorboards, but he didn't come down to meet him this time around. Stiles wasn't sure he wanted to head up to join him. Going inside the house felt… wrong. Like disturbing a grave. It wasn't his place.

Instead, he hovered on the porch, leaning lightly against the frame where the front door used to hang. Derek had stopped moving, awaiting whatever Stiles had come for.

"I talked to Erica," he called softly, not bothering to raise his voice to reach the top floor. "I _think_ it went fairly well. She didn't freak out or anything, anyway. That's good, right?"

Derek didn't say anything in response. Stiles hadn't really expected him to. That would constitute emotional small talk, and there was no way the handful of weeks they'd been acquainted was long enough for Derek to bother trying to engage in personal chit-chat without a reason. It took a lot of time and effort to worm your way that far into his defences. Stiles knew that from experience.

"She wants to talk to you. She didn't really specify why, but I can think of a few potential reasons."

His enhanced senses were _supposed_ to mean that he wasn't caught off-guard anymore, but obviously the silent movements of a born werewolf trumped the faltering hearing of a werewolf barely a month in the making. Derek stared down at him from the top of the crumbling staircase, having moved while Stiles was talking.

"What am I supposed to do about that?"

Stiles rolled his eyes.

"How about you come back home with me so we can all talk?"

"Is this about your little pack thing?"

"A little bit, maybe. I told her we could all be in this together, three wolves against the world, that sort of thing. Only if you're into it, I mean. No point trying to force a pack into existence. I get the feeling that sort of thing doesn't go down well."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're annoyingly persistent?"

"Probably," Stiles allowed, "I get fixated on things. I can't help it." He watched Derek pick a path down the stairs, cautious but with the practised ease of someone who's more than well aware of the safest spots to step. "But is that a 'fine, I'll come' or a 'fuck off Stiles'?"

"I suppose if there're going to be more werewolves running about town soon I might as well know their faces."

"Oh." Stiles blinked in surprise. "To be honest I was expecting you to say no. But this is good. I can work with a yes. I'm hoping to get all this done before my dad gets back from the station though, so, uh, let's go then. Like, right now."

Derek huffed out a breath that Stiles was almost willing to classify as a laugh as he breezed by him out of the house.

"In that case, why don't we make this a test of your speed?"

The suggestion seemed to come so far out of left field, offered with just the tiniest whisper of teasing, that Stiles actually gaped at him. Derek got as far as the bottom of the porch steps before pausing and glancing back over his shoulder. He raised one eyebrow just a fraction, a challenge.

Stiles was never one to back down from a challenge.

**oOoOo**

Derek won their little race. Stiles hadn't anticipated any other possible outcome, but Derek looked secretly smug about it as they walked the last few metres up to the front door. He could only tell because he'd had a long time to become acquainted with the minute facial movements that encompassed a whole silent language of Derek-isms – although it helped that this Derek wasn't entirely hostile towards him.

They found Erica almost exactly where Stiles had left her, sitting sprawled across his bed. A movie was playing on his laptop, but she wasn't watching it. Stiles surmised she'd wanted something familiar to fill the silence that his departure had created, so she didn't have to be completely alone with the reality altering information he'd dumped on her.

He knocked on the doorframe to get her attention instead of barrelling straight into the room. (He could be tactful sometimes, even if no one believed it.) When she glanced over Stiles smiled, and if it looked a little off, no one said anything.

"I'm back," he announced needlessly, crossing the room to slump back into his desk chair. He waved a hand towards the doorway. "And I come bearing gifts."

Derek glared, unamused, but it lacked a certain level of malice. It must have felt pretty good to run all-out like that if he wasn't even getting properly annoyed.

Erica laughed a little. "I take it you're Derek then."

"The one and only!" Stiles chimed in before Derek had a chance to decide whether or not to respond. "Werewolf extraordinaire."

"Right," Derek said flatly. He leaned against the wall next to the door, one of the only parts of Stiles' bedroom that wasn't covered in random print-outs or posters or string. "Stiles said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Sort of. I wanted to scope you out, I guess. See what I might be getting myself into. Make sure you aren't a douchebag."

"Wonderful. Are all of your friends this pleasant?" He directed the question at Stiles, but Erica answered, a little smirk playing across her lips.

"Just telling it like it is."

They studied each other in silence, at some sort of impasse. Stiles paused the movie and fiddled nervously with a pen, clicking it on and off again.

"I think I like her better," Derek eventually decided. Stiles squawked in indignation, pen clattering to the floor.

"No fair! She's only said like two things to you! Didn't we just have a manly bonding session racing full-tilt to my house?! Does that mean nothing to you?" Stiles stuck his lip out in an exaggerated pout, folded his arms across his chest, and spun in his chair so his back was to Derek. "Traitor." Quietly, though, Stiles was glad Derek had given Erica a thumbs up. He wasn't entirely sure what the circumstances had been like the first time around, but he highly doubted Derek had picked Erica for a beta because he thought they might get along.

"Don't be a sore loser Stiles," Erica chided teasingly. "There's enough hunky werewolf to go around."

Stiles spun back around in time to catch Derek mouthing the word 'hunky' with a bewildered look on his face. _Yeah_, he thought, _we're going to be just fine_.


	12. Chapter 12

Minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Twelve:**

Derek wasn't overly keen on sticking around once Erica settled enough to start snarking at him – Stiles heard him mutter something about teenagers while he glared down at the carpet – but he stayed for half an hour or so while they walked her through a lot of the potential dangers of the bite and being a werewolf in general.

Because he was wary of saying something he wasn't supposed to know, Stiles left most of the talking to Derek, who was giving some real blunt, no-holds-barred explanations. It was obvious he didn't care about scaring Erica – in fact, that was probably exactly what he was trying to do: make sure she was tough enough. Stiles would complain, but he had to admit that it wasn't a bad idea. He'd already been struggling to fully explain what she would be getting into, but Derek had no qualms about laying out all the facts.

One thing Stiles had been hesitant to speak about in detail was the hunters. Erica didn't have any particular feelings about Allison, positive or negative, but he was worried she might do or say something that would make Scott suspicious if he told her about the Argents. It was his own fault then, really, that Derek took that decision out of his hands, and handed out a brief but bitter warning.

He held back on defending Allison in front of Derek, because there was no way he could know that in the here and now (and no glaringly obvious ways to bullshit an explanation of how he'd stumbled across it), but he ached to. Scott wasn't the only person Stiles was trying to give a second chance; Allison didn't need to be dragged into all of this, not in the convoluted shit-show of betrayal and violence that played out the last time around.

After Derek left (this time leaving his number, because Stiles was sick of traipsing through the preserve whenever he needed to talk to him) Erica stayed, sprawled out across Stiles' bed. She was still brimming with questions, that much was apparent, but she didn't voice any of them, and Stiles let her be. Instead of dwelling too much on werewolves, Stiles grabbed some drinks from the kitchen and put on another movie.

Erica lay on her side, hogging most of Stiles' bed. Stiles sat on the floor and leaned back against the mattress, his laptop turned towards them on the desk. When Stiles passed Erica her drink, her hand was shaking, just slightly. In what his old Derek would likely have called a 'rare moment of tact', Stiles didn't comment on it. She'd asked for time to process it all, and he would give her all the time in the world.

**oOoOo**

One positive to come from Wednesday's mess was that The Great Reveal seemed to satisfy whatever instinctual part of Stiles had been causing his sleepwalking escapades. That was the sort of turn of events Stiles could get behind; sleep deprivation was only something he tolerated when he was doing it on purpose, foregoing sleep for research binges or monster hunts. Now it was a waiting game to see if it was enough for a permanent solution or if it was only temporarily satisfied.

Stiles hoped like hell it was permanent. If it wasn't, if it somehow hinged on Erica's decision, then he'd never mention it again, not even to Derek. The sleepwalking had been beginning to scare him, just a bit, but he would _never_ put that sort of guilt on someone else's shoulders – he would not pressure Erica into a decision, no matter what it did to him.

_Please, please let it be enough._

**oOoOo**

Sleep issues aside, Thursday came with its own mix of ups and downs, both related and not to the previous day's discussions.

Erica was quieter than usual. It wasn't really something anyone else would notice, because aside from him and Scott no one really took an interest in Erica's general behaviour, but it was there. It was a calculating silence, he realised come lunchtime, when the three of them were sitting together at the back of the cafeteria.

During their shared classes, he'd caught her watching him more than once, but after everything that they'd talked about it was only to be expected. What he'd been hoping wouldn't happen – what he had known was going to happen – was the way Erica was pondering the curve of Allison's back, eyebrows furrowed just slightly as though she were trying hard to imagine something.

This was why he hadn't really wanted to mention the whole hunter thing – at least not to that level of specificity and not that bluntly. Because if Erica started acting noticeably strange towards Allison it would definitely catch Scott's attention, and he'd want to know what was going on, and it would become yet another layer in the tangled web of careful deception and withheld truths that had become his day to day life.

Erica was probably trying to imagine Allison with a gun – that's why she seemed a little confused. Stiles didn't doubt she was capable of using a gun if the situation called for it, but she was really an archer through and through. He wasn't going to tell Erica that though. Not now. Not yet.

Sometimes he really hated being right.

**oOoOo**

Lydia ambushed him after school.

Finding people lying in wait by his locker was starting to become a _thing_, as though it was suddenly the only way people could think of to drag him into conversations he didn't feel like having. The development wasn't one Stiles was sure he was all that happy about. It was only effective because he still sometimes struggled to say no to the one and only Lydia Martin.

Lydia leaned delicately against the locker next to Stiles, managing to appear effortlessly regal yet also as though she'd rather be almost anywhere else. He chose not to bother taking offence to that – he'd rather be somewhere else too, away from the loud, confining school hallways and away from the sort of questioning he was certain was about to begin.

Since Lydia wasn't actually obstructing him in any way, and he was in no hurry to kick-start whatever conversation she had come to have, Stiles tried to ignore the heavy weight of her gaze as he unlocked his locker. He silently bemoaned that she'd planned for that; his locker door opened away from her, leaving him unable to hide behind it.

The longer Lydia maintained her quiet stare, the more Stiles felt the urge to fidget or shuffle his feet. She always managed to appear so unreadable, and it didn't help matters that Stiles still had no idea why she was so set on this little investigation of hers – he couldn't get inside her head anymore, because in some ways this Lydia might as well have been a stranger to him.

When she did finally break her silence, it wasn't what Stiles had been expecting to hear.

"Danny likes to think he's subtle."

He'd been beginning to think that she was just going to stare him into submission. The sound of her voice, carefully nonchalant but oh so very pointed, startled him. He smacked his hand on the edge of his locker, pausing his rummaging long enough to shake out the sting and glance sidelong at Lydia. Although she was affecting a disinterested look, as though discussing old, well-worn gossip, the spark in her eyes and the curve of her lips all dared him to interrupt, to ask, to speak up.

It was a trap. There were no two ways about it. Lydia was a master at twisting people and situations to her liking, and Stiles was no stranger to that fact. But if he ran – and he could and she would never be able to catch him – she would know she'd hit a nerve, and her persistence would only blossom.

Maybe he wasn't at her level, but two people could play at this game of words. His hands moved aimlessly, fingers gliding over paper scraps and textbooks but no longer truly searching for anything; a pretense, to attempt to seem like he wasn't carefully watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Has he been making bedroom eyes at Jackson?" Stiles tossed out casually, trying to infuse a level of calm and scandalised into his voice that he wasn't sure he achieved. "That's such a shame. I really thought he had better taste than that."

Maybe that was a low blow, but Lydia had never had any illusions that Stiles liked Jackson, so the barb didn't carry much weight. In any case, there wasn't an ounce of offense in her expression; her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

"As if." She added an exaggerated eye-roll for dramatic effect, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. "But don't you play coy with me Stiles Stilinski. For a cop's son you don't play innocent as well as you think you do. Danny's hiding something from me, and I'm at least 95% sure that it has something to do with you. You could save everyone a lot of trouble by just coming clean."

"Everyone?" Stiles abandoned all pretense of motion, more than a little confused at this new angle Lydia was taking. "Trouble? Who are we even talking about here? Aren't you pretty much the only person in the entire school who cares about this mysterious 'thing' you think is happening?" He quickly snatched the book he'd been looking for from the back of his locker, suddenly wary about the conversation. He refused to look at her, staring at his hands as he shoved the book into his bag. "Can't you just believe in the 5%?"

Stiles knew the moment the words left his mouth that it was a protest too much. His fears were confirmed by the triumphant way Lydia held herself when he chanced another cautious glance in her direction.

"The very fact that you're asking me to means that I'm right. You two are conspiring about something."

The thoughtful motion of perfectly manicured fingertips tapping gently against Lydia's upper arm sparked Stiles' fight or flight instincts – he knew the answer would be flight. However, to Stiles' immense surprise, Lydia seemed satisfied with whatever she had managed to gleam from him. At the very least, she wasn't going to continue pushing him on the issue right then.

After a long moment of what Stiles was willing to call pure intimidation, Lydia turned on her heel and waltzed away without a single word of farewell. Once she was out of sight, Stiles slumped against the wall of lockers, wondering if this new life wasn't even more complicated than when he'd been in a near constant battle for his life.

All this supernatural stuff refused to give him a break.

**oOoOo**

Friday started more or less the same as Thursday had.

Stiles had slept through the night – or, rather, he hadn't gone on any new late night strolls at any rate; he couldn't claim to have gotten much sleep regardless of that fact, but any sleep that kept him safely in his bed was better than sleep that ended out in the open. When he passed by Erica and Scott in the hallways before school started neither of them made any attempt to talk to him – Scott probably still frustrated by Stiles' vague promise; Erica still lost deep in contemplation – yet he caught them both watching him during shared classes when they thought he wasn't looking.

None of that was new. They'd done it on Thursday, and they'd keep doing it until they were satisfied somehow or another (though Stiles didn't think he could say the same for his sleeping patterns – he was still paranoid about it all).

Given all that, Stiles had been caught rather unawares when Erica looped their arms together in the hallway and steered him pointedly away from the cafeteria at the beginning of their lunch break. He spared a single moment to imagine the increased suspicion unexpectedly skipping lunch would undoubtedly cause, in both Scott _and_ Lydia, but it was ultimately of less importance than whatever Erica had in mind.

They wound up perched on the bonnet of Stiles' jeep in the crisp air, lounging beneath the weak winter sun on cold metal. If the temperature bothered Erica, she made no note of it. Her fingers tapped absently against her leg, but she was otherwise outwardly calm.

Stiles allowed her to gather her thoughts without pressing her into conversation. She would speak when she was ready to. In the lull Stiles rolled his shoulders, attempting to dispel some of the tension that always built up in his body while trapped inside the school building with so many sounds and smells. It had never really occurred to him that he could just escape outside during his free periods – up 'til now, going outside was generally just part of the process of escaping the school grounds entirely, whether it was to go home at the end of the day or to run off into the woods to skip class.

Erica pulled him away from his musings as she straightened from her slouch.

"I've been thinking about what you said. Like, a _lot_. And two days is probably nowhere near long enough to make a decision like this, but at the same time it doesn't really matter how long I spend thinking since I'll just be going round and round on the same points."

Stiles hummed encouragingly before adding his own two cents. "As long as you remember that the decision is yours, time is probably irrelevant." He'd lied to Peter's face about not wanting the bite, and when he'd finally made his peace with the fact that he really _didn't_ want it anymore he'd had that decision ripped away from him. Whatever choice Erica made, he would stand behind it.

"Time _is_ part of the issue though, I reckon. Because, Stiles, I don't really want to die, but I want to _live_, and if I need to take a few risks in order to do that, well… I hate feeling like I have to live my life walking on eggshells, paranoid that something might set me off. This will let me do what I want with my life, right?"

"I won't say it'll be easy, but it will be different. The challenges are things we can work on together, and with time you'll no doubt overcome them. You're already strong here," Stiles reached over and poked Erica gently in the forehead, "this will just allow your body to match that strength."

Erica smiled, but it was still a little frail around the edges.

"You and Derek, you uh, said that the bite itself could potentially be dangerous. That sometimes the body rejects it. How likely do you reckon that is?"

That was a fear that would fester the longer she delayed making a decision.

Gently, Stiles wrapped supernaturally warm fingers around one of Erica's hands, cradling it between his palms. "Derek is a pessimist. You'll be fine, I swear."

"Man, Stiles." Erica sighed, the exasperated exhalation turning into a chuckle at the end. "You sound so freaking confident about it all that it's hard to doubt you. When did you become Mister Reliable?"

"Hey, I take offence to that. For the record I have _always_ been perfectly reliable. Probably." He maintained serious eye contact for a few heartbeats before bursting into laughter. Erica grinned at him, less frayed, steady. The tense air from all their talk of death dissipated.

"I believe in you," Erica said once Stiles was quiet again, her grin softening into a small smile but not disappearing. "I want the bite."

"Okay. Then that's what we'll do." Stiles closed his eyes, imagining the lunar chart he'd printed off and pinned to his wall. "Ideally we'd do it on a Friday after school, so you'd have the weekend to begin to adjust, but the next full moon is on Monday, so this weekend is too risky. You don't want your first full moon being that soon after the change."

"You're the boss. Whatever you think is best. Although…" Erica glanced away, taking back her hand and interlocking her fingers. "I can't exactly say I'm upset with the thought of waiting a whole week for it. Today might have been a little startling."

Right. Today was a Friday. There was a difference between knowing that and _realising_ it, Stiles found, as he hadn't even really registered the immediacy the whole thing would have taken on if he wasn't wary of the full moon.

"No, yeah, totally," he agreed softly. "I'll sort things with Derek for next week. All you have to do is figure out what to tell your parents to excuse you being gone most of the weekend. Werewolf lesson number one: creating good lies is an essential part of life. I'm not sure I ever really nailed that." The quiet admission was equal parts wistful and bitter. Half-truths and secrets and lying too well and not lying well enough – they'd all been the basis of so much turmoil. Part of him rebelled against the thought that he was once again dragging people senselessly into this life of deception. But it wasn't fair to anyone to claim he was overriding their free will. All he was doing, he had to remind himself, was laying out information. Erica made her own choice.

The warning bell rang, signalling that lunch was drawing to a close. Stiles launched himself off the jeep, for once actually graceful in his landing. He waited patiently as Erica slid to the ground. When she made to head towards the school building, Stiles grabbed her wrist gently, pulling her to a stop so he could impart some reluctant advice.

"In the coming weeks, don't talk to me after school too much if Allison's dad's around. He's suspicious of me because he saw me hanging about with Derek, and I'd hate for him to get it in his head to go after you. I need to know that you'll be safe until you're settled enough to protect yourself."

For a moment, it seemed like Erica was going to protest. What in particular she took offence to, Stiles would never know, because she swallowed back whatever she had wanted to say when she took in the look on his face. Stiles wondered if he looked as panicked as he felt at the thought of Argent looming over them, as though trying to piece together a puzzle.

Erica extracted her arm from his grip, but nodded in acceptance, before leaving him standing alone in the parking lot.

**oOoOo**

The weekend was a mess.

Without the distraction of needing to concentrate on control at school Stiles was quickly becoming a twitchy ball of aggression as the peak of the full moon drew closer and closer. It was only his second full moon full stop, and his first as an alpha, and the draw was still incredibly strong. Perhaps even stronger than the first one.

Yeah, Stiles was glad that werewolves didn't actually go full-on beast under the moonlight and run about on all fours against their will every full moon, but he would have liked it better if the moon thing had been a _total_ myth. Surely just being a supernatural creature was hard enough without being instinctively drawn to the lunar cycle.

After several snappish responses and a slammed door, Stiles' dad seemed to realise it was better not to bother him too much. And Stiles felt guilty about it, because his dad hadn't done anything _wrong_, Stiles was just antsy and nothing in his house smelled quite right and he felt unsettled.

To be an alpha was to be a slave to the moon.

That was what Stiles wanted to say, anyway. Except Derek had never been like that (but Derek didn't count, he was a born wolf, he didn't have to juggle so many new experiences at once). _Scott_ had never been like that; not really, not after the first moon or two – Scott hadn't had _lunar_ control issues, he'd had _emotional_ control issues.

And Stiles was, generally, on the inside anyway, more level-headed than Scott. Wasn't he? He'd always been looking at the bigger picture, when Scott had still been worrying about how to juggle keeping his secret from his hunter girlfriend. (But Scott got better; once he started having to take responsibility for more people, he started _trying_ to take a step back, but he would always think with his heart and not with his head.)

For as long as it was his role, Stiles needed to be an alpha who thought with his head. In order to do that, he needed to have control. But the moon sang to him. It was difficult to ignore.

**oOoOo**

It was with red cheeks and a healthy dose of self-loathing that Stiles climbed through his bedroom window in the early hours of Monday morning. He'd spent most of the night sitting on the roof, staring at the moon, hoping like hell that none of his neighbours would look out a window on the way to the bathroom and see his dark silhouette and glowing eyes stretched out on the tiles.

He had wanted to sleep, because the easiest way to ignore the pull of the moon was when he wasn't conscious to process it, but his body had refused to cooperate with that particular plan of action. It would get easier to ignore as the months rolled by. He had to believe that. He refused to be held captive by the universe.

Until that time came to pass, however, he was stuck with this endlessly restless feeling crawling beneath his skin. He didn't want to wolf out, exactly, although his skin itched, as though it were pulled a little too tightly across his skeleton. Part of him felt almost lonely, though his father's presence hadn't helped that in the slightest, but another part of him _wanted_ to be alone. Stiles wasn't used to having such contradictory feelings; he hated it – couldn't it have been about something less confusing?

One thing he knew for certain was that he wasn't going to risk heading in to school. The precipice he could feel himself standing on meant if he went there was a very real chance he might just snap and try and throw a chair at one of his more frustrating teachers (maybe Mr Harris).

On any given day (so far) Stiles had found himself generally in control of himself – save his first few stumbling days of alphahood – but that also meant that he'd never really had to learn to cope. _Coping_ was something that, as a beta, had come almost instinctually. Staying himself had posed no real challenge – in fact, it was _utilising_ his new supernatural abilities that came with more struggle. Perhaps it was a mind-set, a natural resistance he'd built up from living in the company of wolves. Whatever it had been, it was no longer strong enough.

When Peter died, it had been like someone flipped a switch, killing the power to whatever mechanism had been sheltering him from his baser instincts. Now, with the proximity of the moon, it was like his sensitivity dial had been cranked up to max; he wanted to turn it back down, but it was just out of reach.

"I hate this," Stiles whispered into the quiet stillness of the house.

He made a note to talk to Derek about it when they met up in the evening. Although Derek had never had the dubious pleasure of being an alpha, there were surely still thoughts he could offer up in aid. What had things been like for Laura? How many bitten wolves had Derek _actually_ met in his life? Could he even compare the two situations, born and bitten, or was he grasping at straws just as much as Stiles was?

If only he could calm his mind long enough to try and meditate.

With a long-suffering sigh, Stiles stretched out on his bed in the hopes of trying to chase a few hours of sleep while the sun was up.


	13. Chapter 13

Minor edits 27/11/16

**Chapter Thirteen:**

"I regret everything."

Derek refused to acknowledge Stiles' admittedly slightly melodramatic entrance. Obviously he'd known Stiles was coming, as he'd made no move to attempt forest stealth in broad daylight, but it was almost disheartening to realise that Derek was already anticipating and strategically ignoring his outbursts. It was both familiar and achingly unfamiliar.

Stiles knew he had the worst sort of survivor's guilt, and he probably always would. It wasn't the sort of thing you could just shake, in the same way that he would forever be a little frayed from sharing headspace with an ancient, malevolent being. He just hadn't thought it ran so deep that sometimes he felt guilty about the relative ease with which he'd fallen into cooperation with this Derek, when his camaraderie had once been a hard won privilege. They were becoming two very different people in his mind, and that carried with it a flavour of betrayal.

Shaking away a sudden haze of melancholy, Stiles plastered a grin on his face as he rounded the last line of trees into the clearing. A smile wouldn't hide his chemo signals, but Derek had never been particularly invasive with checking in on the emotional states of teenagers, and Stiles imagined he'd been a potent cocktail of ups and downs since the moment he woke up back in 2011.

"What," he goaded, "that's it? No questions? You aren't even the tiniest bit curious?"

For _that_ Stiles got a pointedly raised eyebrow and a no-nonsense stare tossed over Derek's shoulder.

"Believe it or not, Stiles, but I don't have some deep-seated desire to understand the inner workings of your mind, no matter how much you try and convince me otherwise. Also," he continued, before Stiles even had a chance to open his mouth, "that wasn't an invitation. You strike me as the sort of person who would launch into an explanation anyway if I don't specify."

Stiles laughed, because it seemed like what he was supposed to do, because it felt like a Normal Stiles Reaction to an acquaintance making scathing remarks about his personality, but it echoed in his ears, oddly bitter. Jaded. Because sometimes he _did_ used to do that, rant about useless things just to rile people – mostly Derek – up. Only, he wasn't sure he could do it anymore without it feeling forced somehow, or tinged with bitterness that they weren't the right people on the receiving end.

Stiles turned away from Derek's laser-sharp gaze before the once-more-downwards spiral of his thoughts could show on his face. Things were awkward enough between them already – that's what happened when you went behind someone's back to kill their unstable, murderous uncle. Letting Derek in on any of the myriad regrets in Stiles' life would only make things worse.

It was only mid-afternoon. Stiles hadn't intentionally come looking for Derek, considering they'd be spending the whole night together, potentially with Stiles chained to a god-damned tree, or the old train carriage in the bunker. The morning's attempt at scraping together a few hours of shut-eye had proven just as fruitless as the entire night before had been. Staring at the ceiling for hours had just made his room feel claustrophobic; he'd needed to get away, and his traitorous feet had led him unerringly towards the charred shell of the Hale house. Sensing Derek there hadn't exactly been a surprise; was even, perhaps, the expected outcome.

When there were a lot of supernatural problems on his mind, Stiles tended to seek out Scott or Lydia for advice, but in the here and now Derek was just about the only supernaturally knowledgeable person he knew (excluding Danny and his unknown depths of historical lore) who didn't either _think_ he wanted to rip their throat out with his teeth (which was such a Derek cliché, but Stiles still had a lot of pent-up frustration from months upon months of Deaton being endlessly vague and he'd just sort of snapped, okay? First impressions weren't really his strong point), or were _actually_ on his list of people he wouldn't mind giving a fist to the face (not that Stiles was into beating up girls, but Morrell was tough, she could handle it, and if he had to pick sides in the whole druid thing well, Deaton _still_ seemed the lesser of two evils).

So there he was, with his head full of questions but his lips firmly sealed. Too many of his questions would, if he let himself voice them, inevitably lead into unanswerable queries about what Derek had felt when he'd been an alpha. That was a can of worms he was hoping to avoid opening forever, if at all possible. In the end, Derek's stubbornness, his refusal to respond to Stiles' goading, was actually a blessing. It was so much easier to keep secrets when people refused to ask.

Stiles picked a sunny patch of grass and sprawled across it. Once Derek seemed satisfied that Stiles wasn't about to run his mouth off, he returned to whatever it was he'd been doing before Stiles barged in – Stiles wasn't particularly interested in finding out what that was.

It was nice, lying beneath the winter sun, away from the tedious repetition of classes he'd already attended, and away from the people who had certain expectations based on long spans of interaction about how he should act. (Even if he shoved aside all the awful things he knew might still come to pass, it was almost impossible for Stiles to remember what he'd been like before werewolves took over his life.) Sharing space with Derek – insomuch as two people ignoring each other in a large clearing can be 'sharing space' – eased some of the clawing existential loneliness that had been plaguing him all weekend in a way his father had been unable to. He classified it with some frustration as a 'Wolf Thing', and tacked it on to his mental list of _Side Effects That Had Better Lessen With Time_. He would make an actual list, for science, but it would worry his dad when he inevitably stumbled across it.

If he didn't get a handle on all of this quickly though, his dad would have bigger things to worry about than uncomfortable lists.

**oOoOo**

Stiles didn't realise he'd drifted off to sleep until he was roughly dragged back to wakefulness.

When he opened his eyes it was dark. Not middle of the night dark; more a just-after-sunset lack of light. For a moment it threw him, since the sun had been warming his face what felt like mere minutes ago.

There was a dull ache in his side, which continued to fade even as he tried to concentrate on it. Derek had his back to him halfway across the clearing. Stiles could put two and two together. He'd been roused in typical Derek fashion via a foot to the ribs. That part didn't surprise him. What did was that he'd slept at all.

Even with his (frankly unsettling) outdoor nap, which could only have lasted a handful of hours at most, Stiles didn't exactly feel rested at all. His body felt a little sluggish, the way it always did when he'd been dozing, lax and heavy-limbed as his entire being passively protested movement, but he could usually count on the time just after waking to allow him a calm mind, before it ramped up into overdrive the further from sleep he got. Now he just felt restless. The same restlessness he'd been feeling all weekend, but worse, again, with the sun gone and night drawing in on them.

"Get up," Derek called. "We're going."

Stiles scrambled to obey, climbing to his feet and putting on a short burst of speed until he could fall into step just behind Derek.

In the back of his mind, he had a pretty good idea as to why he'd been able to catch a few Zs this time around, despite not intending to. Somehow or another, it all came back to pack mentality. This close to the moon, this soon after turning, all of those extra little things that made him wolf instead of human clamboured uncomfortably close to the surface. At home, he wasn't safe, but here, his beta (of questionable loyalty and with no definite pack affinity, but theoretically pack all the same) had been watching his back, so to speak.

God, he really hoped those animal instincts would kick the bucket soon.

**oOoOo**

They ended up back in Derek's favourite hiding spot – the abandoned rail bunker. (Stiles didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he might very well actually be living down there at the moment. That was too depressing to think about, even for Derek.) Not for the first time, Stiles silently bemoaned the loss of Derek's loft.

Even though he could no longer see the moon – or the sky at all for that matter – he could still feel it in his bones. Stiles felt jittery. Derek kept tossing him glares and looks of exasperation as he shifted from sitting to standing to pacing to standing to sitting again. Once upon a time he might have felt at least a _little_ cowed by that, but now it just made him… unhappy. Because Derek was reprimanding him – albeit without words – despite him only being a beta wolf. He was upsetting the balance of power that Stiles didn't really care about but that the _alpha_ wanted badly to uphold.

Stiles shoved one of the muesli bars he'd crammed into his pockets in his mouth when he felt his teeth sharpening of their own volition, trying desperately not to snarl at Derek or do anything to push him over the edge of this strange sense of cooperation and abandon Stiles to his own fate.

"So…" Stiles hedged hesitantly once his mouth was empty. "How are we playing things tonight?"

For a moment Derek was quiet. Stiles thought he might have been ignoring him. He was fine with that – he was just trying to fill the silence, to get his mind to focus on something.

"Ideally I'd like to chain you up."

Stiles blanched at that, the incessant tapping of his foot ceasing as his whole body froze up in protest. Derek continued without acknowledging it.

"I didn't bother last time, though I had things on hand just in case, since you seemed remarkably self-aware. You've been notably off since then, however. If you were my beta, I'd restrain you. Since you aren't… I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it might do more harm than good."

Power plays. Right. Like with the glaring. Stiles could totally get that. Being restrained by a beta – especially a beta who wasn't technically pack – would really do a number on an alpha's ego, even on a good day. This was not a good day.

"You could totally still, like, knock me out or something though, if I got out of hand. Right?"

"I'd prefer not to go there, if we can help it, but I suppose, if it comes down to it, I could. You're not much of a fighter, and instinct can only get you so far."

"Cool." Stiles nodded, and tried to pretend that every word out of Derek's mouth _wasn't_ making him feel like he was being backed into a corner.

This was why he didn't want to be an alpha.

Stiles paced the inside of the bunker. Around and around and around in some hopeless endeavour to maybe, just maybe, wear himself out a bit before he snapped and got totally moon-drunk.

Every now and again he flexed his hands. Claws in. Claws out. Claws in. Claws out. Eventually he couldn't will them away anymore.

After that, everything struck him all at once.

He was calm, heart racing a little, claws out, nose itchy. Then he turned. Derek came back into his line of sight. His eyes burned. His fangs tore at his lips.

_Beta._ A loud and insistent voice in his head cried. _Beta. Not mine. Not mine not mine danger danger danger DANGER._

Without conscious thought Stiles' body moved, across the bunker, towards Derek.

The older man was alert in an instant, snarling but not meeting his eyes. Not submissive but not obviously challenging him.

It was aggravating. Something inside of him hated it.

They fought.

Neither of them were holding their punches. Derek didn't need to – his alpha strength protected him from Derek's precise fighting style – and Stiles wasn't sure he was even capable of doing so.

It didn't feel real. Stiles felt a little like a passenger inside his own head, unable to control his own body. It was the first time he had felt that so strongly as a wolf. It was different from when he had been possessed, but that didn't mean it was _better_.

He knew now, suddenly, intimately, why he needed an anchor. Why his self-awareness and his knowledge weren't enough to maintain control in the face of alpha-on-the-full-moon. There was so much more raw power, more supernatural instinct, more wolf. He still had his mind – human, intelligent, rational – but his link to his body was being overwhelmed by the powerful spirit he'd taken on upon Peter's death.

Stiles didn't know how long they exchanged blows. He could feel the pain, but it was muted, like sound from underwater. It didn't concern him. Instead, he was trying desperately to grasp something that would work as his anchor.

He thought of his friends, together and individually, but no matter who he thought of there were too many feelings going in too many directions to be able to hold onto them. His determination was weak now, after making his first significant change to the timeline, too weak to help him with what needed to be done.

Anger was out. Pretty much all his emotions were. He wasn't Derek. He couldn't do that, manifest a feeling with such force that it became his connection with humanity. Fear or regret, perhaps, could help a bit – he had those in spades – but using negativity to calm this rage was like fighting fire with fire.

_Think the opposite of Derek_, he tried telling himself. _You're not Derek. You're not Scott. Stop relying on what you know about them and think of something else_.

A face.

Satomi.

Her pack had had a mantra. For focus.

Focus was what he needed more than anything. Finding an anchor with emotional ties was difficult, but finding focus through words – that was something he could do.

He searched his memories, trying to find it, looking, looking-

There.

_"What three things cannot be hidden?"_ whispered a soft, indeterminate voice. Satomi? Brett? Liam? It didn't matter.

_The sun, the moon, the truth,_ he thought frantically.

He repeated it to himself, over and over again.

Derek punched him in the jaw.

Stiles bit his tongue. Tasted blood. Swore.

The words sounded outside of his head. He'd spoken them aloud.

Stiles blinked. His awareness swarmed outwards in an instant.

Derek was standing across from him, eyeing him warily. Stiles ignored him. He spat blood from his mouth and swore some more, the words muffled by his fangs. His whole body was on fire, achy and bruised and sluggishly bleeding.

"You good?" Derek asked, actually sounding a little concerned.

"Depends on your definition of good," Stiles wheezed back, but he was still sort of stoked to be able to hear his own voice and he didn't have it in him to be embarrassed or even properly sarcastic.

Stiles made to sit, but ended up collapsing where he stood in an ungraceful heap instead. It _hurt_. Moving, breathing, even rolling his eyes. Derek had really done a number on him.

"You didn't try to leave," Derek said a while later, in a tone that made it sound like it was supposed to be good news.

Stile gave him a _look_.

"I didn't want to do this out in the forest in case you lost control, ran off, and I couldn't catch you. But you lost control, and you didn't even try to bolt. You came after me instead."

"You don't have to sound so pleased about getting the chance to beat me up."

Derek raised a judgemental eyebrow. It clearly read _you seriously think I like going around beating up teenagers?_

"I could handle it," he said, not proudly, just like he was stating facts. "You saw me as a threat and stayed here, instead of going off to potentially get shot and killed, or to harm a human. I'm sorry but I'm calling that a win as far as I'm concerned."

Stiles sighed, grimacing. Derek had a point. He hadn't even stopped to think about whether Chris would be out haunting the woods. He still seemed tense whenever Stiles crossed paths with him on school grounds.

"Fine."

Stiles lay back on the floor, trying to ignore how his entire body protested the movement, and wished that his stupid werewolf physique wasn't basically immune to painkillers.

**oOoOo**

Stiles was very glad his dad wasn't up to see him when he stumbled home, bloodied and bruised.

**oOoOo**

The moon's pull on his soul lasted longer than Stiles expected as it slowly waned. Although he had already discussed missing school on Tuesday with his father, he ended up having to skip Wednesday as well. He could tell by the sound of his dad's voice as he phoned the school yet again that he was both annoyed by this turn of events and worried about it. Stiles couldn't fault him for that – it was a confusing time for both of them, but Stiles was more than familiar with this stuff by now, even if it was his first time experiencing it all first-hand; his dad, on the other hand, had had all of this dumped unceremoniously in his lap barely more than a month ago, and didn't exactly have anyone to talk about it all with.

While the days leading up to the full moon had filled Stiles with an anxious, restless energy which prevented him from getting any semblance of rest, he wound up spending the majority of Tuesday, after arriving back home, either asleep or in a dazed, half-awake, semi-lupine state. Every time he woke up, he repeated Satomi's mantra to himself, just to be safe. The tension and sense of anticipation that had previously plagued him had all drained away over the course of Monday night, leaving him exhausted but calmer than he had felt in quite some time, as though the alpha within him was finally satisfied about something, despite the wounds that were still healing as he dozed.

Tuesday's sleep was peaceful and largely uninterrupted save for his own body's desire for food, the calm in his soul chasing away any and all dreams, allowing him to recover from the weekend.

Once his body was no longer completely exhausted and trying to heal itself, the temporary calm loosened its grip on his mind. When he woke he no longer found himself partway to beta shift – nails a little too long, teeth a little too sharp, nose a little bit itchy, eyes sporadically aglow – which was something he hadn't much noticed himself while he dozed, but that his dad had commented on when he stumbled down for dinner on Tuesday.

Even after mostly regaining transformative control over his body, Wednesday wasn't so kind.

He woke in time to have breakfast with his dad before his shift, but the sight of his drooping eyelids over red-tinged irises had the sheriff sending him back upstairs before Stiles even really had a chance to think about whether or not he was up for going to school. He accepted the verdict easily and went without a fuss.

By then he was in that in-between state where his previous over-tiredness had been assuaged with so much sleep that he wanted to keep sleeping, so in the beginning he forced himself to stay awake. Stiles started up a few brainstorm documents for essay assignments he vaguely remembered being assigned – he'd done more of his homework than usual during the weekend while he wasn't sleeping, so there wasn't really any left for him to focus on – and sleepily bemoaned the fact that he hadn't been able to bring all his homework files back to the past with him. (Whether that would have been a good thing or not, he would never know – he got the feeling he might need the normalcy from time to time.)

When that stopped helping, Stiles took a much-colder-than-usual shower to try and shock himself into alertness. The temporary reprieve lasted until he was throwing together something for lunch. He could go for a run to try and settle himself, but he had no desire to draw unwanted attention. Instead, he flicked on the TV and sprawled out on the couch in the living room.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep again.

**oOoOo**

_There was something warm and wet on his cheek._

_Stiles scrubbed the back of his hand across his face and glanced down at it. A dark, reddish smear was smudged across his pale skin. He breathed it in and knew instantly what it was. Blood._

_He blinked. Lowered his hand._

_His surroundings snapped suddenly into focus as he shifted his thoughts outwards._

_Derek's loft. Full of possessions, devoid of life. Stiles was alone._

_No. Not alone._

_There was a shuffling sound. Bare feet on the cold floor. Something… dripping?_

_Stiles turned, slowly, on the spot. Someone was standing on the other side of the room._

_The floor was red._

_He smelled iron._

_He blinked. In the millisecond his eyes were closed the figure had crossed the room._

_Blue eyes stared down at him._

_He blinked again._

_Red eyes._

_Blue._

_They flickered, unsteady, back and forth. Blue-red-blue-red-blue-red-bl-_

_Stiles' fingers twitched. He wanted to step back, to put distance between them, but his legs weren't listening to him. Nothing was listening to him._

_He breathed in through his nose and gagged on the scent, hanging heavy and cloying in the air. Blood. More blood than he knew what to do with, more than he'd ever smelt before._

_The dripping was louder now._

_His gaze drifted without his permission, away from the eyes that held him captive _(and he knew those eyes, damn it all, he knew exactly who this was, why they were there) _and down, down to a tan neck covered in glistening red liquid._

_He was surrounded by an impossible amount of blood._

_This man was dead yet not dead. Red and blue. Glaring in accusation and staring in bemusement. He couldn't speak – his vocal cords were ruined – but he had never needed words to get his thoughts across._

_He reached towards Stiles. There was blood on his hands – on his shirt, his pants, his everything. His fingers caressed the side of Stiles' face for a moment, sticky and wet and warm and leaving a trail in their wake, before they wandered down to his throat. His nails pressed in firmly; a warning. Holding him still._

_His hand, his gaze, screamed at Stiles._

"This is your fault!"_ they cried. _"You did this to me. I could have been great. _We_ could have been great._"_

_Stiles couldn't breathe. He was still, frozen in place, unable to react, to fight back or escape or even speak (to apologise?)._

_His pulse rushed in his ears. The fingers tightened._

_Above him, Peter Hale smiled._

_It was cold._

_It was a promise._

**oOoOo**

A sharp burst of pain tugged Stiles violently awake.

In his attempts to escape the dream – _nightmare_ – Stiles had fallen off the couch and landed awkwardly on the floor, one arm clipping the coffee table on the way down.

His heart beat rapidly in his chest, lungs heaving as he gasped in air.

Stiles was no stranger to nightmares. He had plenty of bad experiences for his mind to feed off of, plenty of regrets and danger and blood and pain and all of that. He was used to it. He _thought_ he was used to it. He'd been dealing with nightmares for months prior to this new shitstorm; a couple more now was nothing to be surprised about.

But he couldn't escape a niggling voice in the back of his head, a voice strengthened by this latest nightmare. Maybe killing Peter had been rash. Maybe he could have done things differently. Made better choices.

_No._ Stiles shook himself, carefully picking himself up from the floor. _I can't let myself be swayed be things like that._ There was too much still at stake for him to allow himself to get swept away in renewed regrets and games of what if.

He just had to take things one step at a time.

**oOoOo**

Lunchtime Thursday saw Stiles herding Erica towards the mostly empty cafeteria table generally used by Vernon Boyd and _only_ Vernon Boyd. (Boyd was a great guy, Stiles could vouch for that, but he naturally (and likely purposefully) exuded this sort of aura that kept most people at bay – kids only bothered him if they wanted something, and he seemed fine with that.) He sat at the edge of the bench on the opposite side and end to where Boyd sat, eyeing them a little oddly, and pulled Erica down beside him. They sat pressed together at the hip and shoulder, heads bowed, and kept their voices low as they picked at their food.

"Allison's dad was in the car park when I got here so I couldn't say this this morning, but, what the hell Stiles? You just disappeared for three days – don't think I'm not mad at you for ignoring all my texts yesterday."

Stiles smiled a little sheepishly, but it was half-hearted at best. Erica frowned at him, but he could tell she was more worried than upset – for the time being, anyway. He let the smile drop; it obviously wasn't fooling her.

"Sorry. Tuesday was planned – I forgot to warn you that I'd be staying away from school then. Monday was pretty touch and go. I'm still getting used to, you know, everything, and in the end I deemed Monday too much of a risk. Yesterday, well, that was my dad's decision actually, but I can't say I necessarily blame him. I still feel a little… _off_ today, but I'm in control of everything again, and that's all I can really ask for."

He paused, turning a little more to meet Erica's gaze head-on.

"My eyes don't look weird do they? The irises? I can't always tell."

She squinted at him, frown not lessening in the slightest, and shook her head.

"You look a little tired, but not, you know, glowy."

"Good. That's good then. Tired is something I can deal with." He breathed out slowly and looked back down at the table.

"Is that… common then?"

"Nah." Stiles waved off her concern. "It's only my second go-about, and I've got a lot of stuff going on right now. You don't have to worry about racking up absences. You'll be fine."

Erica tugged lightly on the hem of Stiles' shirt, voice pitched even lower, showing a tinge of concern.

"How do you know?"

_Experience_, his mind whispered. "Call it an educated guess," he said instead.

She huffed at the non-answer, but when Stiles glanced up at her, her frown had become a wry smile. That was more like it.

They spent the rest of lunch talking about lighter things – homework and people and movies and whatever else came to mind – until they decided to get a move on and beat the pre-class hallway rush.

As they left the cafeteria, Stiles threw a glance across the room to locate Scott. He caught sight of his friend looking awfully bewildered, sitting across a table from Lydia. Scott was busy gaping, but Lydia was watching them leave. The thought that she was observing them didn't sit well with Stiles; Lydia was good at getting what she wanted, one way or another, and Stiles still hadn't figured out her end goal.

**oOoOo**

The nightmares were back once more.

Blurry and indistinct, Stiles awoke early in the morning feeling deeply unsettled. Although this time the details evaded him, he could take an educated guess.

Peter. Again.

**oOoOo**

Scott was quiet on Friday.

Stiles didn't notice at first, because they were mostly in class, and he was busy worrying about his after school plans, but come lunchtime it became glaringly obvious that something was up.

A quiet Scott was a Scott who was trying much harder than usual to figure something out. Back in the day that wouldn't have been an issue, because it almost certainly wouldn't have directly related to Stiles in any way – he used to be a pretty open book after all – but now… Now it was a reason for some concern.

Non-interference seemed the best way to go, so Stiles did his best to ignore it, but as lunch dragged on – and the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the trio with it – it became harder and harder to pretend he couldn't tell that Scott obviously had something to say.

Beside him, Erica was equally on edge. She didn't know the ins and outs of Scott's personality the way Stiles did; he'd just picked a really bad day to decide to put his brain to use. She hadn't said a word about what they had planned for the weekend, but he knew she was tense about it regardless – it was impossible not to be.

With a sigh Stiles shifted in his seat, trying to come up with the best way to approach whatever was going on with Scott before it started getting seriously out of hand. Scott interrupted him before he could come to a decent solution.

"Stiles," he said, a slightly nervous tone to his voice and a strange look on his face. "We're buddies, right?"

It felt like a rhetorical question – they'd already had their friendship argument the other week, and Scott wouldn't bring it up so publicly – but Stiles nodded anyway.

Scott's gaze drifted over to Erica for a moment, before he stared determinedly at a point Stiles guessed to be just over his shoulder.

"I know we've been a little…" He trailed off, waved his hand vaguely in the air, shrugged, and discarded the thought. "You know I'd have nothing against it, right? So you'd tell me if you and Erica were dating, wouldn't you?"

Erica made a strangled, choking sound, caught somewhere between a derisive snort and a startled laugh.

Stiles, who had started getting concerned by Scott's back and forth train of thoughts, froze, utterly confused as the words floated around in his head. He smacked Erica lightly in the arm out of reflex, but was otherwise at a complete loss. The accusation – okay, accusation was a strong word, it was more of an… observation? The comment, anyway, seemed to come way out of left field. Stiles had no idea how to respond. Thankfully, Erica did.

"Seriously? Dating? Us?" She laughed, waving her hand in denial, but there was still a strain to the sound. Stiles dismissed it as lingering surprise.

Stiles was glad she'd taken the lead. If he'd allowed himself to react he might not have been able to bite his tongue against the urge to grab at the convenient cover Scott had so unwittingly handed up to him. It wasn't something he wanted to do – he was trying to keep his lies to an absolute minimum, especially in regards to Scott – but his self-preservation instincts sometimes got the better of him.

"Yeah," Stiles added, pulling himself together. "Where'd that come from?"

Scott was visibly flustered by their reaction. His gaze wavered, eyes flicking over to where Stiles knew for a fact Lydia was sitting, probably watching this all play out. All of a sudden it made sense. The why was still lost on him, but the what was plain to see. Lydia had planted the idea yesterday, taking advantage of his need for private conversation, and had sat back to see what would come of it. He knew she was still curious, but he hadn't expected her to drag Scott into the fray.

Was she taunting him? Trying to spur him into action?

Her curiosity was a dangerous thing. He needed to head it off somehow; he just didn't know how yet.

"Well then," Stiles said, trying for teasingly cheerful and hoping his tension didn't seep through. "You can tell the red-headed goddess fuelling your imagination that if she wants to tease me there are better ways than this."

Scott flushed a dark red, averting his gaze to the table. He mumbled something under his breath, about curiosity and "just want you to be happy." Stiles forced himself to laugh it off, to change the subject, to try and put it from his mind for the time being.

Today was too important to allow himself to be distracted by Lydia's little games.


	14. Chapter 14

Minor edits 27/11/16 - If you want to keep up with progress updates and all the woes of writing you can follow my blog .com

**Chapter 14:**

After school, Stiles and Erica holed themselves up in the school library for half an hour or so, half-heartedly taking a stab at some of their weekend homework.

Stiles wasn't willing to take any chances with Chris Argent – not now – so they were biding their time, waiting to make absolutely certain that he wasn't hanging about on school grounds when they left. He didn't care much for his own safety – he could handle himself, especially if the man wanted to play mind games (because Stiles knew so much more about the Argent family than the man would ever expect, and wouldn't it be justice to see him scared of _Stiles_ for once?) – but he wasn't about to risk drawing Argent's attention to Erica. She didn't deserve to be subjected to his laser-focused suspicion; all she wanted was to be healthy and to belong. Stiles refused to let her be persecuted for that.

Erica did actually manage to get a bit of homework done – she was mostly just following Stiles' lead in regards to the Argent situation, and she didn't have any of the context to fuel her paranoia like Stiles did – but Stiles had only managed to waste a perfectly good notebook page by doodling all over it while staring alternately between the clock on the wall and the window.

When he was satisfied that enough time had passed, Stiles shoved his things into his bag, grabbed Erica's gym bag (he'd asked her to bring some stuff so they wouldn't have to make any awkward pit-stops to her house to possibly face Parental Questioning), and led the way out into the parking lot.

**oOoOo**

The house was empty when Stiles pulled into the driveway. Since his dad was on the day shift at the moment it was to be expected, but Stiles wasn't going to deny that he was a little relieved. He hadn't exactly told his dad about the recent shift in the Beacon Hills hierarchy (the change in his eye colour had been noted but not questioned, which Stiles put down to his dad's reluctance to know more about werewolves than he needed to), or about the offer he'd made to Erica, so anything that meant avoiding or postponing a confrontation about it all was a good thing in Stiles' book.

He and Erica crossed the short distance between his jeep and the house in silence. She could have waited in the jeep – he didn't plan on being inside for long – but Stiles felt that perhaps Erica, like himself, was a little wary of being alone on a day like today.

Although he'd been feeling a bit off all day, Stiles hadn't realised _how_ nervous he was until he found himself stuck in a losing battle with the lock on the front door. The keys were gently pried from his fingers, and Stiles' vision was suddenly full of Erica's worried face. Keys in her pocket for the moment, Erica took Stiles' hands in her own, cradling them and stilling the minute trembles that shook his fingers.

"Are you sure everything's okay? You were tense in the library too."

Stiles took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out, trying to release some of his nerves with the motion.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted with a shrug. Erica didn't need to know that he didn't just mean werewolf stuff; he planned on keeping the burden of his existential dread and confusion locked carefully away in his own mind forever.

Erica squeezed his hands reassuringly. "Well, neither do I. So I guess we'll stumble blindly forward together."

Looking at her earnest expression Stiles was struck with a newly-familiar wash of guilt-grief-fondness. Thankfully the fondness tended to win out over everything else, but the guilt and the grief were still there, lingering at the edges, always waiting for a moment of weakness where they could take hold.

He shifted his hands in her hold and squeezed gently back.

"Sure," he said, grateful but unable to commit. "Batman and Catwoman, on a new adventure."

He didn't smile. Neither did she.

Taking the statement for what it was – gratefulness but also an end to the topic – Erica slipped her hands out of Stiles' loose grasp. She retrieved Stiles' keys from her pocket, but didn't return them, searching out the door key and unlocking it herself. _I believe you_, she didn't say, _but you're not fine_.

In the moments her back was turned to him Stiles rolled his eyes, but he couldn't deny the warm burst of affection as she fussed over his shaky mental state. He'd become so accustomed to everyone being in the same tortured, semi-defeated state as him that someone being genuinely worried over anything short of someone bleeding out was a little bit shocking sometimes.

He didn't want to go back to that, if he could avoid it.

Erica dangled the keys in front of his face when she was done, then dropped them into his waiting hand.

"So, oh great and fearful leader, what are we here for?"

Stiles ignored the teasing as they headed inside.

"I'm going to grab some stuff from upstairs. Derek's place isn't exactly what you'd call _homely_, and since we'll be there all night we might as well _try_ and be comfortable. While I do that, there's a bunch of junk food I stashed under the sink to hide from dad – you can pretty much help yourself if there's anything you want to bring."

"Roger." She gave him a cheeky salute and slinked off into the kitchen.

Erica really was a blessing, Stiles mused as he headed up the stairs. She was level-headed and didn't let her emotions dictate her actions in the same way that Scott did. If Scott got wind of any of this, or caught Stiles in a moment of emotional exhaustion, he'd refuse to let it go until he got a satisfactory explanation – Erica understood that things were give and take, and not talking about something didn't mean you didn't trust someone.

He still hadn't figured out what to tell Scott. He was using Erica as a distraction to avoid the whole situation, but he'd have to come up with something soon. Scott was patient, but everyone had limits – and that patience would be tested by the thought that Stiles was finding it easier to talk about things with Erica these days than with him.

Stiles clenched his jaw, shook his head, and headed for the linen cupboard. He fished out a couple of blankets, closed the cupboard, and carried them into his bedroom. The blankets he shoved haphazardly into a duffel bag, along with his recently assembled werewolf-grade first aid kit, a change of clothes, and, after a moment or two of thought, his notebook full of things to come, which he had started using as a journal to keep track of how things were changing.

Erica's voice floated up the stairs. She was adapting quickly – she hadn't shouted, just raised her voice a little, giving it purpose to catch his attention. "Are you nearly done up there?"

Stiles didn't answer; just zipped the duffel bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and headed back down the hallway.

Downstairs he ducked into the kitchen, grabbed a box of muesli bars, and added them to the small collection of food Erica had gathered. They were going to buy something for dinner on the way out – Stiles knew the bunker wasn't exactly equipped for food storage, and he didn't really know what Derek did for food these days, but he was a grown man and he could look after himself – everything else was just snacks and maybe breakfast. Stiles had found that his hunger could be unpredictable now, so it was better to be prepared.

"Ready?" she asked again, prompting, not impatient. She cradled the food carefully in her arms and waited while Stiles made sure there wasn't anything else he'd been meaning to grab.

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed eventually. "Yeah, we're good. Let's go."

**oOoOo**

Derek wasn't in the bunker when they arrived. Stiles had sensed the nearly oppressive emptiness and silence of the space before they made it inside, but the confirmation was a little unsettling. It wasn't a place he exactly loved being, but it was worse like this. He wasn't thrilled that Derek was off somewhere, but he trusted that he'd be back eventually.

He dumped his stuff on the floor by one of the cold concrete walls.

"So, this place is really, uh, something," Erica commented dryly as she followed suit.

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I know, it's a real 5 star werewolf hideout. Still, at least it's secluded."

"Does Derek know you're using his, uh, place, or have you conveniently organised this for when he was gone?"

"Oh ye of little faith," Stiles chided, climbing up into the train car and gesturing for Erica to follow. "I'll have you know I specifically asked for adult supervision on this. It's not my fault if he decided to go on a run or whatever."

Stiles settled in one of the seats that was still more or less intact, and patted the cushion next to him. Erica sat almost reluctantly, and forcefully wrapped Stiles' arm around her shoulders.

"Adult supervision, huh…" The pep in her voice from Stiles' house was gone now. The bunker seemed to have stripped her of her faux-cheery mask of confidence. He could understand that. It was easy (eas_ier_) to fake a smile and a laugh in the light of the sun. Underground or at night, that was a different story.

He tugged her gently sideways until her head rested against his shoulder.

"I know I've said this before, but you're really under no obligation to go through with this. We can go back home, watch a movie and pretend this never happened. It's your choice."

Erica exhaled shakily against his sleeve.

"I know. You've been pretty vocal about it. And I am… worried. I trust you – that's not the issue. It's just, well, it's one thing to hear about it, to see it, for it to be you. It's another thing for it to suddenly be _me_. There's no pretending none of this is real once I'm fully a part of it. But—" her voice grew stronger as she continued "—you said it would heal me. That I'll be able to live my own life. And that, more than anything, is what I want. If the price for that is a few frazzled nerves, well, I'm sure I can cope with that."

Stiles smiled sadly into her hair. She was so, so strong, and she shouldn't have to deal with any of this – her illness or the bullying or the danger he was about to pull her into. But the only thing he could do was respect her choices and support the outcome. She would be a werewolf, and she would have a target on her back, but Stiles would protect her. He had that power this time. He could do it.

He didn't voice any of that though. He just whispered "Okay."

They sat together until Stiles heard Derek making his way into the bunker.

Stiles had known from the start, before he even suggested the bite to Erica, that he would be supremely uncomfortable doing it himself. Unfortunately, he was the only one who _could _do it, so the next best thing had been to ensure that Derek was there to supervise things. It wasn't that he thought he would somehow lose control, or fuck things up – he just couldn't do it alone. He needed the silent support that Derek could provide, even if it just meant he happened to be in the same room. Otherwise he wouldn't have gone through the effort of setting everything up in the bunker.

"The Big Bad's here," Stiles whispered, knowing full well that Derek could hear him. He squeezed Erica's shoulder before standing up and shuffling out of the train car. He tried tossing Derek a teasing smirk, but he was pretty sure it fell flat, since the furrow of Derek's brow that accompanied his mandatory frown was deeper than usual, and had a confused edge to it.

He flitted across the concrete to meet Derek halfway across the bunker, keeping him, momentarily, away from Erica.

"Where've you been?" Stiles asked, pitching his voice low so Erica couldn't hear them and hoping Derek would follow his lead.

Derek's face shifted – concerned, confused, annoyed – but answered quietly in a level tone that portrayed none of it.

"I'm not late. You didn't set a time."

Stiles' shoulders sagged because yeah, that was true, but he couldn't help that he was antsy.

"Sorry, I just..." he waved his hands about, as though he could explain the conflicting jumble of nerves if he just gestured enough.

Derek inclined his head in what probably counted as a nod, but said nothing. Typical. No harsh words or teasing but no words of comfort either. A small, nostalgic smile curled his lips for a moment before Stiles banished the thought.

"Well, you're here now, so I guess it's show time."

Derek rolled his eyes, glanced over at the train car – Erica was standing in the empty doorway, watching them – and walked over to the opposite wall, leaning pointedly against it. _The floor is yours_, his eyes said.

Shaking his head, Stiles pointed Erica over to a sturdy crate, and walked over to rummage through his duffel bag. He retrieved the first aid kit, but left the blankets alone for the time being.

"Should I be worried?" Erica queried lightly when Stiles set it down next to her on the crate. He flushed slightly, embarrassed. It was sort of big, even if it was still mostly empty. His intention was to have a bit of a wolfsbane collection for emergency healing, as well as a store of mountain ash and whatever other nifty stuff he could get his hands on (or maybe nick from Deaton, whatever worked best) that would help with supernatural issues, along with a bunch of regular old human medical stuff like bandages and disinfectant. He wasn't optimistic enough to think that he'd be able to keep the group human-free forever, and when that happened they were _going_ to get hurt. There was no avoiding that.

"Nah, you'll be fine in the morning. It's just, super healing doesn't kick in until you _are_ a werewolf, so it'll take a little while. Best to disinfect it and keep it wrapped until it heals."

Erica nodded and looked away while Stiles fished out some gauze, medical tape, antiseptic and fabric bandages. It felt a little wasteful, but better safe than sorry. When given the chance, he was never going to be half-assed about a person's well-being again.

"Okay, well, uh, whenever you're ready then I guess."

Erica stared down at him at that. He imagined he looked hideously pale – that's how he felt anyway.

"I'm ready when you are," she said gently.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles rolled up one of her sleeves and cradled her bare forearm in his hands.

When it came right down to it, there was no elaborate ceremony or ritual or anything when it came to creating a werewolf. Stiles didn't really know how it was usually done – he'd been ravaged in the woods and the only times he'd been even partially witness to a turning it was never voluntary, never a gift given with express permission and consent rather than a curse forced upon someone.

He would have felt better about it, Stiles mused idly, if there had been a ritual. But werewolves were creatures of action, never one to stand on ceremony, and rituals were the realm of druids.

Beneath Derek's watchful eye, and with Erica's free hand resting encouragingly on his shoulder, Stiles called out to that uncomfortable, restless part of him where the wolf lurked. His eyes burned, his teeth lengthened, his skin stretched. He ran his fingertips over Erica's arm, reassuringly, but he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure.

Holding her still Stiles leaned forward and sank his fangs into her forearm. Erica hissed out a pained breath, and her fingers clenched in a death grip on Stiles' shoulder, but she otherwise stayed silent.

He pulled carefully away when the scent of blood made his nose itch, one hand reaching for fabric to staunch the flow while he turned his head away to spit out the blood that had gotten in his mouth. Derek grumbled unhappily at that, but Stiles ignored him.

"Okay," he said when his mouth tasted a little less like copper. "That was terrible, but everything's fine." He splashed some antiseptic carelessly across her arm, hoping not to prolong the pain. He cleaned her arm as gently as he could, then stuck down a square of gauze, and covered everything in a layer of bandages.

Stiles shoved the first aid kit off to the side, gently pried Erica's hand from his shoulder, and drew her into a careful hug.

"I'm never letting you do that again," she muttered into his ear, "so that better have worked."

He refrained from reminding her that if it didn't work she would die. It would work. There was no point worrying her.

"Absolutely," he said instead. "Never again."

**oOoOo**

Although she hadn't exactly lost a lot of blood, Erica still seemed a bit woozy and rather pale. Stiles forced her to eat a muesli bar and drink some water; while she did he gathered up most of the blankets he'd brought along and made a make-shift bed at the back of the train car on one of the benches. It was best if she just slept it off.

"Don't mess with the bandage," he instructed as he helped her to her feet. "Leave it on until tomorrow evening, to be on the safe side."

"Yes mom," Erica snarked, a little tiredly, willingly allowing Stiles to tug her across the bunker. When she saw the nest of blankets she sighed, but gave Stiles a fond look. "I don't see a bed for you. Do you plan on sleeping at all?"

"Of course!" Stiles chimed brightly, pushing her firmly down onto the bench. "But you're exhausted and I'm not, so you're going to sleep now and I'll sleep later."

It was clear she didn't believe him in the slightest, but his hands were shaking just slightly, and she didn't protest. Stiles fled from the train car when it was clear she would stay put.

**oOoOo**

_02/11/2011_

_It's been just over a month since I woke up here and I still sometimes think I'm dreaming._

_Whenever I see Erica or Boyd or Allison it feels like if I take my eyes off them, if I turn away, then when I look back they'll be dead again. I'm coping, for now, but I'm scared. Scared that I'm never going to get used to this. To them. Alive again. Untainted (for now). And if I don't, if I can't adjust, well... I'm not sure how long I can last like this._

_I'm trying, dear **god** am I trying. The last thing I want to do is let something slip, to worry Erica (worry her more than I already am). I wouldn't wish that knowledge on anyone._

_Every time I make a decision, every time I open my mouth, I'm changing something. I'm spinning the cogs of fate further and further away from what I know, from what is familiar, and further into the murky uncertainty of an unknown future._

_I said I would protect her, but I can only protect her from what I know. And every day I know a little less._

_It's only been a month but I've already forgotten what it's like not to have even an inkling of what tomorrow may bring. That scares me too._

Stiles tapped his pen against the page a few times, considering, before he clicked the pen off and shoved both it and the notebook back into his bag. Putting his thoughts on paper was uncomfortable sometimes, but he needed to keep track of himself. Of his thoughts, his actions, his changes, his mental state. Not his nightmares though. Writing those down would get him nowhere.

He focused his attention on the steady beating of Erica's heart and tried to relax.

It had already been several hours since she fell asleep, but Stiles had been resisting the urge to follow suit. His nightmares were almost a nightly occurrence at the moment; he didn't want to have one in front of the others. That wasn't the only reason though. Despite all the evidence he had that Erica's body would adapt fine to the bite, the frantic, uncertain part of himself was worried that, if he fell asleep, he'd wake up to find her dead.

Stiles glanced over at Derek. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady, but Stiles could tell he wasn't asleep. Maybe he couldn't let his guard down enough to sleep in their presence. Stiles wouldn't be offended if that was the case. They'd only known each other for barely a month after all, and Derek didn't trust easily.

The thought did make him feel a little guilty though. Derek seemed like Stiles in the fact that he didn't get as much sleep as he should. Stiles didn't like the thought that he was now a factor in Derek's sleeplessness.

Stiles pulled the last blanket close around his shoulders and settled in for a tense, sleepless night.

**oOoOo**

Like Stiles had known she would, Erica lived to see another day. That didn't stop the swell of relief that washed over him when she stumbled, still half-asleep, out of the train car mid-morning.

The first words out of her mouth were "I'm hungry," and Stiles laughed, throwing a bag of chips at her and promising they could go out for lunch later. If he didn't have advanced healing there would have been dark circles below his eyes, and he was thankful there was no way for Erica to know he hadn't slept (unless Derek decided to tell her, of course, but that was unlikely).

"Everything's looking A-OK, right Derek?"

Derek glared at him, sighed, and straightened up. "Yes, she's fine. Congratulations, you have your first beta."

"Woah there, are we really doing this now? You know this whole alpha thing makes me uncomfortable, and that we could be pack if you wanted, and that I am in no way trying to build a pack. So don't make this into some weird milestone thing, or you're officially uninvited to lunch." If he was standing, Stiles would have put his hands on his hips just to emphasis his point.

"I was unaware I was invited in the first place," Derek pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course you were," Erica butted in cheerfully. "It's a celebration, the whole gang's supposed to go."

Stiles wasn't sure whether to be amused or horrified by that proclamation. Derek appeared similarly distressed.

"You've got strange friends Stilinski. Barely twelve hours in and she's already all buddy-buddy. You know that's not how things work, right?" He directed the last part to Erica, who simply shrugged.

Stiles glanced between the two of them and smiled.

"Oh, come on Sourwolf. You don't have to be best friends, but what's the harm in one trip to the diner? Pack or not, we're all in this together now."

"You're not going to stop asking until I say I'll go, are you?"

"Well," Stiles said, pushing to his feet, "_I'm_ not going to push the issue, but this is like, Erica's supernatural birthday or something. Can't say no to the birthday girl."

"Technically that was yesterday," Derek pointed out, but he didn't sound too annoyed, merely resigned.

Erica smirked. "That's a yes then."

"Fine, fine, as long as you remember to take all your junk with you when you leave."

"Aye aye Captain."

Stiles could feel Derek glaring at him as he headed into the train car to collect Erica's blankets. His whole body was shaking in relief – lunch would certainly do him a world of good. And Derek would probably be good entertainment while they ate, if Erica's jovial mood continued.

One step down, a million more to go.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Well shit guys, I didn't mean for it to take 6 whole months to get something done, but this year hasn't been great for writing just in general, and this is where it's left me. I've started making progress update posts on my new tumblr **aj-writes-fic** so, you know, if it starts to drag on again you can always look there to see what's happening.

**Chapter Fifteen:**

Although Derek had followed after them when they packed up their stuff and left the bunker, Stiles hadn't _actually_ believed he was going to come along for lunch. He'd taken the move as an escort out to his jeep, to make sure they didn't leave anything behind or get lost or get attacked or whatever. Derek getting _into_ the jeep had not been a part of the plan, but Stiles liked living uninjured enough not to say anything. Erica… didn't quite have those same survival instincts, if the amused looks she kept shooting him from the backseat during the drive were anything to go by.

Instead of acknowledging her, Stiles cranked up the radio and tried not to ponder how strange a trio they would make to anyone they saw in town.

**oOoOo**

They parked two blocks down from their destination.

It was a diner which Erica was apparently fond of, and that Stiles had never frequented _before_ werewolves became a point of fact in his life, but had made ample visits to _after_. They had cheap food and decent portion sizes, all important factors in choosing places to dine out with your insatiable werewolf friends.

Stiles didn't know if the place existed before Derek left town, or if he'd stumbled across it in the time he'd been back, and he didn't ask. Derek offered no opinion either way of his own free will. Erica seemed content simply leading the way.

They ended up seated at a small, round table, where everyone was technically seated across from everyone else and Stiles didn't have to worry so much about potentially having to keep Erica away from Derek. Since their first meeting Stiles had been on tenterhooks, just waiting for her to say something leading or embarrassing that Derek would be less likely to just shrug off. Depending on how Erica worded things (and in this new, less stressful situation where Derek wasn't an angry alpha seeking power and might actually be _capable_ of decent human interaction) Stiles imagined they could either be pretty good friends, or she would permanently be getting on Derek's nerves. A dangerous waiting game indeed.

Trying _not_ to let his imagination run off into his possible impending doom, Stiles glanced over the menu. He pretty much had the whole thing memorised, but it was best to double check – it would be incredibly embarrassing to try and order something that wasn't on the menu yet, and Erica would never let him live it down.

They ordered their food – a toasted sandwich and a side of curly fries for Stiles, a burger for Derek, and a pancake stack for Erica with extra bacon – and then sat in a surprisingly comfortable silence while they waited for it all.

Stiles should have known that Erica's silence was a bad omen, but he was too busy being grateful that she wasn't poking at Derek when he had nothing to distract or placate him.

When their food arrived all focus shifted to eating – this was technically a brunch outing after all, and they were all hungry.

The peace only lasted about five minutes.

"You know," Erica said leadingly, gesturing absently with her knife, "I still don't really get you two."

Stiles blinked at her in confusion, a curly fry frozen halfway to his mouth, and a feeling of dreadful anticipation washing over him. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You guys! Just, everything! This whole buddy-buddy thing you've got going on."

Erica stared imploringly at him. Stiles shoved a handful of curly fries in his mouth to stall for time. Rather than denying their friendship outright, Derek too was watching him carefully. Although it was hard to tell, it was clear that he was also more than a little curious about Stiles and his attitude.

Stiles knew that these were dangerous waters. There was just no simple and sane way to explain why he had over a year's worth of hard-earned affection for a man he'd supposedly barely known for a month. An inkling of foreboding shot through him, but he pushed it back, swallowed through the momentary panic, and took a long sip of water.

"Are we?" Stiles eventually asked instead. "Buddy-buddy that is."

Derek snorted derisively off to his left, which was a resounding no. Erica's stare shifted down a few notches to discontent, frowning at him over her maple-drenched pile of pancakes.

"Obviously not in the same way you are – _were_ – with McCall, but still, I would've thought so until right now…" Stiles met her gaze evenly even though he wanted to look away. He didn't need to feel so attacked just for having feelings.

"It's more like a… mentorship?"

Derek gave him another strange look, but Stiles ignored it. This felt a lot closer to the perceived truth, so he'd roll with it while he could.

"A tough love, 'don't screw this up or I will end you' mentorship," he amended after a moment of thought.

"That's… more realistic," Derek allowed with a shrug. "If that's how you want to put it. Personally I prefer 'upstart new-born refuses to respect his elders' but that works too I suppose."

Erica let out a startled giggle. Stiles' jaw dropped in surprise at the tease which, if anything, only made Derek's smirk wider. He floundered about for some sort of comeback, but came up empty-handed.

"God Stiles," Erica bit out, giggles gone but laughter still clear in her voice, "you know you have to _respect your elders_. You don't want the old man over here to kick your ass."

For a second Stiles was pretty sure he stopped breathing. He glanced over at Derek. His smirk had slipped, lips parted just slightly, staring wide-eyed at Erica. He looked torn between amusement and offence. Stiles imagined this was going to become a common struggle.

"If I have to respect Derek then you have to respect both of us," Stiles pointed out hastily. "Because, you know, hierarchy of seniority. Derek's top dog and you're just the new kid on the block."

Erica shrugged but shook her head. "I'm not sure how this stuff goes where you're from Stilinski, but isn't the _alpha_ supposed to be top dog? I mean, if it's up for debate then I'd like to throw my hat into the ring as well and we can leave this all up to a vote, but something tells me it's not as democratic as all that."

And there went the light-hearted mood.

If there was one thing Stiles did _not_ want to talk about right then it was leadership and his part in it.

He exhaled heavily through his nose and turned his attention back to his food.

Derek mumbled something vaguely reprimanding about not saying alpha in public before the conversation died down altogether.

In all honestly Stiles felt pretty bad about ruining the mood. It had been really interesting watching Derek and Erica interact – he'd never really been witness to anything he'd call friendly interaction between Derek and his betas before things went to hell, and it felt like he was seeing a new side to both of them. Stiles had always known Erica could be snide and snarky and teasing, but she rarely showed it, especially to people she barely knew. The whole werewolf solidarity thing must have been liberating for her.

It was what he'd wanted – for her to be safer, healthier and happier – but getting close to people with so many secrets held close to his chest was also isolating. Even with everything that was currently going down with Scott, Stiles was only now coming to truly realise that.

Once the food was gone the trio didn't linger in the diner. They paid in silence, and Derek parted ways with them at the entrance. He didn't say anything, but Stiles guessed he was just going to run back to the bunker or the house or wherever else he wanted to lurk today. Eyeing Derek's retreating form for a long moment, Stiles tossed about the idea of heading straight home, but ultimately shrugged it off, turning to walk down the street in the opposite direction to where he had parked.

"Sorry if I was an epic downbuzz back there," Erica piped up, a block into their mindless meandering.

Stiles flexed his fingers, frustrated at having made Erica think it was her fault.

"It wasn't you," he assured softly. "I'm just… touchy, about positions of power. And being in those positions. And having 'power' over anyone else. And lots of other things. Sorry. Maybe let's not use the a word anymore though?"

Erica hummed curiously, but acquiesced easily all the same.

They wandered the streets for a while, no destination in mind. Stiles' only motivation had been to get a bit of air before heading home, but since Erica had offered up no protest to the idea, they lingered longer than he had originally intended, slowly letting go of some of the tension he constantly carried about with him in the cool air.

Stiles was finally starting to feel a little less stressed about everything, so of course that was when they ran into Allison and Kate Argent exiting a shop as they headed back towards the jeep.

The duo were turned towards each other, heads tilted down as they talked amongst themselves, so Stiles noticed them before they noticed him. He considered turning tail and doubling back to find an alternative route, but even as his stance shifted to do exactly that Allison lifted her gaze and Stiles knew he'd been caught. She made a sound of surprise and stepped out in front of them, forcing them all to a stop on the sidewalk.

"Hey," Allison greeted, offering a smile. "You're Stiles, right? Scott's friend? We share some classes but I don't think we've ever spoken before."

"No, I don't suppose we have," he returned lightly, very determinedly _not_ looking at Kate. "Out shopping?"

"Yeah. My aunt hasn't been here in a while and, since I guess I'm still pretty new myself, we've been exploring the stores together."

"Great." Stiles glanced almost pleadingly at Erica. "That's great."

Erica, who had been standing a few paces behind him, observing, stepped up to Stiles' side and placed a hand on his arm.

"Hate to break this up," she said pleasantly, "but we're running late for something."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Allison's gaze travelled between Stiles and Erica in curiosity. She mumbled "I thought Scott said they weren't dating," under her breath, and Erica huffed a quiet laugh that only Stiles could hear.

Kate stepped in with a wide smile, eyes piercing – Chris very well may have talked to her about him, which was just another reason on the list of reasons why he should try and stay far, far away from her. "Come now Allison, we should leave your friends to their day. Is there anywhere else you want to go?"

The two Argents delved into another shopping discussion, and Stiles took the moment to slip around them, murmuring a farewell just to seem a little less rude. It took a concentrated effort to walk at a normal, non-suspicious speed down the street. Finally reaching the jeep was an immense relief.

Stiles had never been happier that Derek wasn't into window-shopping or mindless weekends with teenagers. If he was still with them then things would have rockets from 0-100 real quick.

"You are so not as subtle as you think you are," Erica commented once they were both in the jeep. "It was so obvious that you were wildly uncomfortable. Is that why you've been avoiding her at school?"

Stiles started the engine with a frown.

"Well sorry about that. Thanks for the assist though. Even if it probably means Lydia will be giving us even more weird looks next week."

"Hey, did you hear me say date? No. It's hardly our fault if she already had the thought in her head."

"Touché."

They were halfway to Stiles' place when she spoke again.

"So you have been avoiding her then?"

"What?"

"Allison." Stiles could see her staring him down from the passenger seat. "You didn't deny it. Why?"

"It's complicated. Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to stay off the Argents' radar?"

"Hmm… Nope. Maybe if you weren't encouraging Scott to befriend her, then I'd buy it. But forcing your BFF to make a new friend and then avoiding that friend is super suspicious. I know you said _she_ isn't in the know about hunters and stuff, but don't you think that's the sort of thing she might complain about over dinner? 'Mom I made friends with this guy but his best friend won't even look at me. I think he hates me.'"

Stiles grit his teeth. "I don't _hate_ her."

"No? What then?"

"I _said_ that it's complicated."

"Okay, okay, I'll quit prying."

"_Thank you_."

"Someday you'll tell me on your own."

Stiles groaned.

**oOoOo**

Sheriff Stilinski was a little suspicious at the prospect of Erica staying the night – oh no, a boy-girl sleepover, how scandalous – but since staying home and watching movies was a happier thought than Stiles roaming the streets at night looking for crime like he sometimes did, he allowed it without making a fuss.

Stiles was glad for it, because sneaking her in and out of the house was not only way more suspicious, but would have been a real pain in the butt. If his dad had said no, he probably would've just sent her home – the next full moon was far enough away that he wasn't particularly worried about the repercussions of being unsupervised right after getting the bite; he trusted that she would be fine – but he was glad she was allowed to stay.

He wasn't currently sure whether or not he wanted sleep _or_ company, but company might keep him from sleep or sooth the edges away from nightmares. Stiles didn't _want_ people to be worried about him, but that wish quite plainly wasn't happening.

Ever since town Erica had started giving him long, appraising looks every now and again. He knew she wouldn't ask again – she was good at keeping her word – but that wouldn't stop her from trying to come to a conclusion on her own. There was absolutely _no way_ that he could open his mouth and say _'she's dead because of me'_ and also no way that she would ever come to the correct conclusion without context, so, while it was mildly uncomfortable, he left her to her own devices.

They watched movies and ate junk food and slept – Erica a lot, Stiles a little – and in the morning, after some exercises to help Erica centre herself and start to learn about her enhanced senses, they did it all again until it was time for Erica to head home for the first time all weekend.

**oOoOo**

Now that first contact had been made, it was a lot harder to justify brushing Allison off without coming across as an absolute jackass. Instead, Stiles limited himself to responses only, and tried to avoid crossing paths with her inside of school whenever possible.

Allison had obviously told Scott that they'd met over the weekend, because Scott seemed momentarily distracted from the fact that Stiles was with-holding information from him and was instead trying to figure out whether or not to be happy about the fact that Stiles was now personally acknowledging Allison's existence to her face. As much as he wanted to tell Scott that everything was fine, the different line of thinking was great for buying time to come up with answers he still didn't have, so he kept his mouth shut on the subject.

Erica was withdrawn on Monday, learning to adjust to the volume of lunchtime chatter and the school bell, but she still had something sharp or sarcastic on the tip of her tongue ready for whenever anyone looked at her funny. People were quickly learning that sickly Erica Reyes (not so sickly anymore) was a firecracker with a dagger-sharp tongue who should not be crossed.

Stiles only wished they had learnt that earlier via actual polite interaction instead of being judgemental assholes.

**oOoOo**

Stiles could _feel_ Lydia's gaze burning into him whenever they were in the same room.

The fact that Lydia and Allison were friends was terrible for his well-being. They had _100%_ been talking about him, and there was nothing he could do about it except cross his fingers and hope they quit being so damn obvious about it before Jackson decided to take offense and get involved.

Thankfully, Lydia seemed to have approved Danny as some sort of go-between – she was probably using the time to improve her attempts at prying free information that he wasn't willing to give – so Stiles had been, at least temporarily, spared the headache of navigating a conversation full of traps while keeping a wary eye out for errant lacrosse players and their unpredictable tempers. Talking to Danny wasn't necessarily any less confusing, but at least it was safe.

"How goes the investigation team?" Stiles quipped when Danny sat down across from him during Tuesday's Scott-free lunch. Erica snorted and sent him a bemused look. He'd told her that Danny was aware he was a werewolf, but he hadn't been super forthcoming on the related details, like how Lydia had been hounding the both of them for information.

"Mildly frustrated but persistent." Danny shrugged. He glanced at Erica in question.

"She's fine, just keep your voice down. The walls have ears and all that jazz."

"Sure…" Danny's gaze cut between the two of them as he came to his own, likely accurate, conclusion of the change in dynamic.

"Anything interesting?" Stiles prompted, leaning forward to lessen the distance even if he didn't need to be any closer to hear him.

"Well, as I'm sure you've guessed, Allison told Lydia about whatever happened over the weekend. Lydia's pounced on the fact that you're all weird around Allison and I think she's going to try and use her as a trump card to startle some answers out of you. I'd like to think you're smarter than to fall for that, but it's really no skin off my back if you mess up. This is just fair warning."

Stiles swore under his breath. Lydia didn't know how cruel it was to use Allison against him. Still, they'd be getting nothing from him.

"You need anything to report back?"

"Nothing incriminating, obviously." Danny's gaze shifted over Stiles' shoulder to where Lydia and the rest of the gang were sitting halfway across the room. "Do you want me to encourage or dissuade the rumour about you two dating?"

"I should've known that'd come back around again," Erica muttered, sounding equal parts wistful and resentful. Stiles wrinkled his nose at her tone but shrugged it off.

"Dissuade…?" Stiles hedged, looking to her for a second opinion.

Erica rolled her eyes. "What, am I suddenly wearing the pants in this relationship? Yes, dissuade, whatever. Guys and girls can be friends, people, don't kick up a fuss."

Danny laughed. "Dissuade it is then." He stood from the table and walked off without so much as a by-your-leave.

When he was well and truly out of hearing, Stiles turned back to Erica.

"You know your opinion matters, right? Regardless of whether it's about everyday stuff or supernatural stuff. It's not about anyone 'wearing the pants'."

For a long moment Erica's face took on a stubbornly defensive edge, her body tense, before she sighed heavily and slumped forward.

"I know, I know. It's just… this is all still kinda weird for me."

"Talking to people?"

She glared at him. Stiles raised his hands in surrender.

"Having people care about what I have to say. It's been a while since that concept applied to me. I know it's been a couple of weeks now, and hopefully things go up instead of crashing and burning, but sometimes it's hard to compute that I'm not just being tolerated."

Stiles tugged her into a quick side-hug. He felt sad and protective and guilty because he was so _so_ glad that she was even alive to be having those doubts in the first place.

"I'll always care," he said, instead of the flood of apologies that coated his tongue. "Derek might not care in the traditional sense, but he listens, and he's not dismissive of serious things."

When Erica chuckled it caught in her throat, but they both pretended it didn't.

**oOoOo**

On Wednesday, after startling awake in the early hours of the morning from yet another nightmare – hazy and indistinct this time, but which swung wildly between blotchy colours and full cinematic renditions from night to night – Stiles dug out his little notebook of futures past and tried to reorient himself.

Given that he'd so instantly and without thought of repercussion dived into changing the timeline, he was mostly just letting himself get swept away in the current of events. For the first week or so he'd pretty much been hoping that, at any moment, he might open his eyes and find himself back where he came from, surrounded by the friends he'd left behind. Unless he was in a god damn coma (which he wasn't sure whether it would be better or worse than the whole time travel thing) then the whole dream scenario thing had run itself into the ground at least two weeks ago.

He was trapped and that was that. But what was he _doing_ with himself?

Not enough.

It felt like an eternity, but seeing Kate in town over the weekend had really brought a lot of things back into focus. It had only been two weeks since Derek nearly died and Stiles had broken into the Argents' house, but other than the occasional glimpse of Chris in the school car park he hadn't seen or heard much from the hunters since then.

That realisation immediately set him on edge.

Chris wasn't generally a 'shoot first ask questions later' kind of guy unless in a particularly aggressive situation, but that was when he was working _alone_. Kate didn't have a shred of sympathy in her body, and she would hunt them to the ends of the earth if she felt like it.

Stiles could only pray that Chris hadn't shared his suspicions about him with his sister. He supposed that if he had, she wouldn't have hurried Allison away so quickly on Saturday – she would've wanted to observe him, poke at him, intimidate him; she knew plenty of ways to do so without making her niece unduly suspicious.

Still, even with everything he knew about Kate, everything she had done and everything she _would_ do if given the chance, Stiles didn't know if he wanted to kill her. (Because that had gone _so well_ last time.) In the middle of the night he could still sometimes feel the way Peter's blood had splashed across his hands, a phantom sensation that wouldn't leave no matter how often he scrubbed at his hands. He didn't know if he could do that again. At least not so soon.

Derek would. If given a reason and the chance, Stiles had no doubt that Derek would willingly snuff out her life. She had a lot to answer for in regards to the Hale family, after all. But if they just charged in, guns blazing, Chris would come after them in turn and there would be no end to it all.

God, what Stiles wouldn't give to hand over the knowledge and responsibility to someone else. But it was his burden to carry. His and his alone.

He would steer them through it, alive and in one piece and with as few enemies as possible. He swore it.

Whether he could live up to his own expectations, well, that was another thing entirely.


	16. Chapter 16

_**This is a text from Stiles.  
**__**This is a text TO**____**Stiles.**_  
Formatting text convos wasn't something I had the patience for so that's that.

**Chapter Sixteen:**

The sun rose on Wednesday morning proper to a wide-eyed Stiles, thrumming with tension and anxious energy, who had already been awake for nearly three hours before the sun even began its ascent into the sky. Having spent those wakeful hours in serious self-contemplation, Stiles found himself brimming with determination yet still lacking a tangible goal.

There was, of course, his bottom line, his ultimatum: protect them all. But putting that vague sense of protectiveness into action against the always-shifting flow of time? A more difficult task indeed.

Deep down Stiles knew things needed to be sorted with the Argents, sooner rather than later. He also didn't want to wind up on unnecessarily bad terms with Chris (and, he supposed, Victoria) in the process. Going out of your way to make enemies was definitely not the best way to play it safe in a place like Beacon Hills, where danger arose from inside the town just as much as it came in from outside.

It was something he needed to talk to Derek about, but it was a conversation for another day (or, at least, another time). There was someone else he needed to talk to now.

**oOoOo**

Having already forewarned Erica that she'd be spending lunch alone, Stiles felt a lot less guilty about ambushing and manhandling his best friend out to the bleachers (again) at the start of their lunch period. Scott had put up a mild protest initially, caught completely off guard by Stiles completely dropping the not-quite-avoidance-but-totally-still-avoidance stance he'd taken in their interactions for the past week or so, but otherwise followed in relatively complacent silence.

"Can we talk?" Stiles asked once they were there, only just realising that he'd secreted him away with absolutely no explanation.

Scott leaned back against a support pole with his arms across his chest, a mild expression on his face. "I don't know, _can_ we?"

Stiles sighed at the poorly hidden vitriol. "_Scott._"

"Right, sorry." He glanced away, guilty and apologetic, but otherwise stood firm. "Is this it then?"

"Not exactly."

Scott looked back at him, eyebrow raised in obvious question.

"Look, this is me trying to be a considerate friend while figuring out whether it's better to be a considerate friend or to be totally and transparently honest."

"Why do you make it seem like those are two mutually exclusive things?"

"Because they kind of are?" Stiles kicked at the grass and looked up at the winter sky. "I said before that it was complicated, yes? And it is. But here's the thing: if I tell you, I might end up putting you in a totally unfair position where you have to pick sides. I don't want to make you have to pick."

He glanced back to try and gauge Scott's reaction. Scott looked bemused, but his tone was incredulous when he spoke.

"So this is you, what, trying to _protect_ me?" His arms fell to his sides and his hands clenched helplessly at empty air. "I thought that was why we _didn't_ keep secrets from each other. Or am I not trustworthy enough to make my own decisions anymore? You _promised_ you would explain."

"I will, I am!"

"No, this is you trying to run away." The hard undertone in Scott's voice disappeared. "What are you so afraid of?"

Grinding his teeth, Stiles bit back his knee-jerk reaction to argue. Scott wasn't wrong. Stiles _was_ afraid of what might happen if, when, he came clean. Stiles had always been the one to jump into otherworldly things – Scott had refused to acknowledge his _own existence_ until it was completely unavoidable. He had been far happier not knowing.

"If I told you I was at odds with the Argent family, what would you do?"

Scott floundered at the apparent change of subject. "The Arg- Allison's family? They've only been here like a month and a half, how could you possibly have beef with them?"

"I told you it was complicated," Stiles pointed out again. "What would you do?"

"Is that what you meant about picking sides? Is that- Is that why you won't talk to Allison? But why would you encourage me to talk to her if you have issues with her family?"

"For the same reason I don't really want to be having this conversation Scotty. I want you to be happy."

"Stiles, look at me."

With some reluctance, Stiles obeyed, meeting Scott's steady gaze head-on.

"It's just a crush. If there's something seriously wrong, something that's making you uncomfortable, I don't have to hang out with her. I can get over it. But you're not going to tell me what's wrong, are you?"

"That's the _point_, Scott! I know you'd sabotage your own chances for happiness in a second if I said the right words, and I don't want you to do that. That's why it's better if you don't know any of the details."

"And if I want to be able to make my own informed decisions, as is my right?"

Stiles whined distraughtly in the back of his throat.

"Why can't you just take happiness at face value and pretend I never brought any of this up?"

"Because, Stiles, I know you. You've been weird since we got back from Christmas break, and maybe you're trying to protect other people but who's going to protect you?"

Damn Scott and his stupid kind-heartedness and his loyalty and his puppy dog eyes. Could he not just be selfish for one minute and let Stiles protect his blissful ignorance?

"Are you going to tell me _anything_?" Scott asked.

"…" Stiles was really regretting his early morning confidence that this was a good idea. "My issues with the Argents don't have anything to do with Allison – she doesn't know that there _are_ issues or what they're about."

"But you're still worried about me being forced to choose, even when Allison has no idea what's going on?"

Dragging a hand down his face Stiles tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt.

"It's the domino effect Scott. If I tell you, you might start acting weird, and she might find out what's going on, and then there'll just be a whole lot more trouble than there needs to be. _That's_ when the ultimatum would pop up."

"From you?"

"From her parents, technically."

"Why are you so sure it'll be an issue?"

"I just don't want you caught up in the middle of this shitstorm between me and the Argents before I have the chance to try and de-escalate it, okay?"

That gave Scott a moment of pause.

"You're going to try and fix things?"

"That… is not exactly the word I would use, no, but I am going to attempt to get things back on neutral terms." Stiles shifted restlessly, wanting the conversation done with but knowing that he couldn't just end it like that. "Listen, I know you're getting frustrated waiting for me to get my shit together, but if we're going to have this talk I want to have at least attempted to make the situation a safe one for you to wander into. Because knowledge is dangerous, yeah? And I just want you to be safe, even if that means you're angry at me."

"That's a pretty selfish way to look at things," Scott said, resigned but not angry.

"And I'm a selfish, self-serving person, yes, you've known that for years. You're the angel to my devil or whatever."

Scott laughed. "Mom _does_ think you're a bad influence sometimes, but that's a little extreme don't you think?"

"Well your mom is right I'm a terrible influence, but you love me anyway. Just trust me on this?"

"What happened to 'knowledge is power'?" Scott hedged, testing the waters. Stiles made a face and he retracted the question. "Right, right, never mind. But, just so you know, this is only tipping the scales from annoyed to worried. I'm worried about you Stiles."

"Isn't everyone?" Stiles muttered, obviously talking to himself but not quite low enough to escape Scott's hearing. Louder, he continued, "Everything's fine. Everything is going to be just fine. Don't worry your pretty little head over it, 'kay?"

"When has that statement ever instilled calm in anyone ever?"

"It's happened! Probably." Stiles tugged his phone out and checked the time. "You should probably head back if you want a chance to eat before lunch ends."

It was an obvious end to the discussion. Scott eyed him carefully, but didn't try and dig any further. Neither of them wanted to get into another fight.

"Are you coming then?" he asked, taking a few steps away from the bleachers and turning to watch Stiles.

Stiles – riled up and melancholic and stressed – glanced towards the school buildings but shook his head.

"Nah, 'm not hungry."

"Right…"

He could pinpoint the moment Scott gave up on him. Even though Scott was only abandoning his attempts to get him to eat, Stiles felt it like a trembling precursor of things to come. Scott was faithful and loyal and better than anyone deserved, but he expected reciprocity. If Stiles continued to shut him out then, eventually, Scott would stop trying. Stiles didn't want to reach that breaking point; he needed to get things sorted until he felt stable enough, _safe_ enough, to open up again. And it needed to be soon.

He spent the rest of school in a daze.

**oOoOo**

Texting Derek and requesting a meet-up would be way more efficient than wandering about looking for him, but Stiles enjoyed the peace of the woods, and it was nothing so urgent that he couldn't spend an extra half hour soaking up the calming presence of nature before a potentially volatile conversation.

In the end, he ran into the older man purely by accident. Derek had been in the middle of a run and Stiles found himself along his route. There was no doubt in his mind that Derek would have completely ignored him and kept going if Stiles hadn't called out to him; even then the look Derek pierced him with screamed rather loudly that he had better things to be doing, but then Stiles started talking, and for once got right to the point.

"I want to talk to Chris Argent."

Derek's jaw clenched at the sudden suggestion; his eyebrow crept up in demand of an explanation.

"I know you don't trust the Argents, and with good reason, but I want to try and put us on neutral terms. Make a treaty or something, maybe. Something to lessen the tension from two opposing forces living in close quarters."

"Parley?"

Stiles brightened. "Exactly!"

"And you think this will work why?"

"Because of my sparkling personality?"

"Stiles–" Derek visibly bit back whatever was going to follow – undoubtedly an insult of some sort. "Why are you even asking my opinion?"

"Haven't we already been over this? Even if you don't want to be buddy-pals, you're still like pack. I'm not trying to start trouble. This area was home to your pack long before I came along; just because I've got red eyes and not you doesn't mean I'm gonna trample all over that history."

"You–" Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're an enigma. But I guess I can't say I entirely disapprove. What exactly are you planning?"

Stiles rocked back on his heels.

"Well, once it's organised – if he even agrees to it in the first place – then I'm going to try and feel him out. About the fire, that is. See what he does and doesn't know, where he stands, how he feels about it. That probably won't stay a friendly talk, but if we open his eyes then even if nothing else pans out he'll at least have to question things."

"You want to turn him against Kate."

"I mean… more or less, yeah. Settle the long-standing historical issue, then we can get on to how everything's currently all hunky-dory and no one's running around rabid and he can quit staring at me like I'm going to self-destruct."

"You see him a lot?"

"Just crossing paths at school. He hasn't tried raiding my house again if that's what you mean."

Derek huffed and shifted on the spot, itching to get back to his run.

"That's beside the point though. Are you okay with it?"

"…" Derek pondered the question with a weighty seriousness. Stiles didn't begrudge him it. He knew Chris better than Derek did. From Derek's perspective there were so many different ways things could go to shit. Was it worth the risk? "Just him?"

"Just the three of us," Stiles confirmed easily.

"You want me to be there?"

"Of course. Dude, we literally just went over this: it's your town too. Plus, you know, you're the guy with all the evidence."

"…Why did I ever think it was a good idea to talk to you?"

"Because I needed help and you know I'm right?"

"Cocky alphas get overthrown." Derek turned his back to Stiles, getting ready to head off. "Just text me when you figure out what you're doing."

"Will do."

And then he was gone, putting on an unnecessary burst of enhanced speed to get away from Stiles before he could potentially turn to a different topic of conversation. Stiles shook his head, thoroughly amused, and turned towards home. The plan had technically been okayed, now he just had to convince Argent it was something worth agreeing to.

**oOoOo**

After a quiet dinner – his father was working late and had yet to make it home – Stiles was working on a stack of vaguely familiar homework assignments when his phone buzzed on the edge of his desk.

**_Are you going on Friday?_**

It was from Erica.

Stiles wrinkled his nose in confusion. She couldn't possibly be referring to the meeting with Argent, because even setting aside the fact that he still had to actually talk to Chris and get him to agree to the meeting in the first place, he'd made it clear (at least, clear enough that Derek wouldn't bother mentioning it to her if they happened to cross paths) that she didn't need to know anything was happening; if she knew but wasn't invited he wouldn't put it past her to just show up anyway, and that would only cause trouble since he was trying to keep her off the radar.

But that still left Stiles floundering. Erica usually offered at least a _little_ bit of context in the lead-up to random questions like that. He shrugged and sent a text back.

**_Going? Friday?_**

Then he turned back to pondering what the appropriate level of sarcasm and satire was for Finstock's latest assignment.

This time he didn't get a text. His phone rang with an incoming call. He rolled his eyes and answered it.

_"__Do you seriously expect me to believe that you don't know what Friday is?"_

"Hello to you too Erica," Stiles responded, laughing lightly at the scandalised tone of her voice.

_"__I know you're a serious space-head what with all this Twilight stuff, but really? Are you __**that**__ disconnected from school?"_

"So it's a school thing?"

A frustrated groan was his only answer.

"You asked 'if' so it's not a compulsory thing."

_"__Oh for god's sake Stiles. The winter formal."_

"Oh…"

He checked the calendar on his laptop and for once looked at the dates instead of just the days. He'd been here for almost two full months.

Memories flooded unbidden to the forefront of his mind. The winter formal, regardless of the fact that he'd actually been able to dance with Lydia, practically his biggest life achievement at the time, had not been a happy night. It had been filled with death and violence and hospitals and no one had come out the other side of that night entirely unaffected.

"No," he said, more harshly than he intended but with unwavering certainty. "No, I'm not going."

Erica hummed in acknowledgement, curious and startled in equal parts, but she didn't ask for a reason or question his vehement tone.

"Movie night then?"

He shook the image of Lydia's bloodstained dress away and smiled wryly.

"Sure. Movie night. We don't need their pop music to have fun."

"Exactly."

They talked a little while longer, Erica switching back to chewing him out for not noticing all the chatter and posters and whatever else around school that should have clued him in to what time of year it was. He took the teasing with good cheer, unwilling to get into any of the myriad reasons for his detachment from the social calendar, and when they ended the call he turned back to his economics homework with a handful of new realisations.

No one was going to get mauled at the formal this year. In taking fate into his own hands, he had made sure of it. Everyone would have a nice night, free of supernatural interference, and no one would be scrambling for makeshift Molotov cocktails in the preserve.

Nightmares and insomnia would never be enough to make him regret this particular outcome, even if he himself wasn't participating in the festivities. Movies and junk food and a silent vigil for things-that-were seemed much more comforting.

**oOoOo**

Stiles didn't even have to ask Scott to stall Allison after school – they were deep in conversation about the formal by the lockers when Stiles hurried passed them. He was relieved, for the first time since coming back here, to see Chris' car outside. Chris didn't pick Allison up _every_ day, but he was still around more often than not. For once it made things a hell of a lot easier.

He raced down into the parking lot, rounded the car and knocked on the driver's door. Chris gave a double-take when he saw him – Stiles gave a cheeky wave – and rolled the window down with a hard frown.

"What are you doing, Stilinski?"

"Give me your number."

"Excuse me?"

At any other time Stiles would've laughed at the look of pure incredulity that crossed Argent's face, but he was sort of on a time-limit.

"Cell phone. I want to parley but I don't want Allison to see us talking so we can't exactly hash out the details or get into an argument about why we should even parley in the first place here and now. So, number. Now. Please."

"Parley?"

Stiles groaned. "God you're as bad as Derek." He shoved his phone pointedly in Chris' face until the man reluctantly accepted it. "Number, unless you want to explain to Allison why we're talking."

Chris' frown returned at the mention of Allison; even if Stiles didn't know what he knew it was obviously a sore point.

"I'm going to regret this aren't I?" Nevertheless, his fingers moved across the keys for a moment before he handed Stiles back his phone.

Gaze darting over the school entrance in a quick Allison-check, Stiles put a hand to his heart and adopted an innocent expression. "Work talk only, scout's honour."

If Chris Argent was the sort of person who rolled their eyes at teen antics, he definitely would have. Instead he just gave Stiles a _Look_ and rolled the window back up.

With a sigh of relief that he hadn't put up more of a fight, Stiles headed back inside.

**oOoOo**

Stiles prided himself on the fact that he didn't immediately text spam Argent the moment he got home. He could have – there was nothing stopping him. He could've relieved so much stress with petty payback that Argent wouldn't even have known _was_ payback. But let it be said that Stiles was fully capable of putting the mission first.

_Mission_. He laughed dryly at the thought. This parley situation was certainly going to be a mission.

So he went home, worked on some homework, and generally wasted time for a while until what he deemed was an 'appropriate' time of day to start harassing an adult via text message.

**_Silver bullets, yay or nay?_**

Okay he never promised he was going to be _completely_ mature about it. He would be, but that didn't mean he couldn't slip some snide remarks in beforehand. Argent didn't reply straightaway, but when he did Stiles had to applaud his forward thinking.

**_Stilinski this is a spare phone and I won't hesitate to throw it away if you're ceaselessly juvenile._**

**_Right, right, parley talk only._**

**_Why do you keep going on about a parley?_**

**_What, you don't like that word? I can call it peace talks if you want but that's lame._**

**_Sorry, sorry, irrelevant right?_**

**_We – well 'I' I suppose – want to propose a meeting._**

**_We?_**

**_Me and Derek. I mean mostly me but he'll be there too._**

**_And I should care about this why?_**

**_Because we're all here living in BH and we don't want to fight for no reason?_**

**_Unless you do actually want to fight._**

**_You don't strike me as a killing-for-sport sort of person but I've been wrong before._**

**_So, talk? Yay or nay?_**

Chris didn't respond for a while after that. It didn't matter much to Stiles if he wanted some time to think – or if he just had better things to do. If he didn't respond before Stiles turned in for another less-than-restful sleep then Stiles would just spam him with texts tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, until he offered up an answer one way or the other.

Persistence was one of Stiles' many skills.

There was a text waiting for him after dinner.

**_Conditions?_**

**_First: just you, me and Derek_**

**_Second: don't tell anyone about the meeting_**

**_Or, well, you can tell your wife why/what if you really want but not where/when_**

**_And pleasex10000 don't tell Kate ANYTHING_**

**_That might sound like a strange condition rn but please_**

**_Third: no weapons. Just a peaceful talk, I swear you'll go home in one piece_**

**_Although if you show up excessively armed or with backup I'm not holding Derek back_**

**_Cause that's just reaping what you sow man and I ain't getting in the middle of all that_**

**_Is there some urgent reason behind all of this?_**

**_Why does there have to be a deeper meaning?_**

**_Can't we all just be friends? :D_**

**_Ok nvm dumb question sorry_**

**_But for real tho, isn't sooner better than latter if we want to hash out cohabitation rules or whatever?_**

**_Don't kill people is a fine rule – one that's been broken recently._**

**_That's not my fault!_**

**_Look we can talk about that during the meeting_**

**_If there's going to be one_**

**_Have you decided?_**

**_I do require a clearer view of the situation than I currently possess. Fine. I'll agree to your stipulations, but put one claw out of line and it will not end well._**

**_And the same to you_**

**_Ugh I'm not trying to be threatening nvm ignore that_**

**_I'll text you a time+place later_**

Stiles had sort of expected a confirmation but all he got was radio silence. No matter; he had the all clear from both parties, however reluctantly. Now they just had to actually get through the meeting without doing irreparable damage to their potential working relationship and making ferocious lifelong enemies of the Argent family and any and all hunters who would ally with them.

Derek wasn't quite as 'rip your head off, tear your throat out' aggressively angry as Stiles remembered him being, but that didn't mean Stiles wasn't going to have to play peacekeeper.

De-escalation was _not_ one of his best skills.


End file.
